Shot Through the Heart (And You're to Blame)
by trixietru
Summary: Lassiter does something unexpected during a stressful moment, leading Shawn to re-evaluate their relationship.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Shot Through the Heart (and You're too Blame)  
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter  
Rating: NC-17  
Summary: Lassiter does something unexpected during a stressful moment, leading Shawn to re-evaluate their relationship.

Author's Note: This is a very, very belated birthday fic for Moondragon, who requested "what I'd really like to see is Shawn having to take care of Lassiter in some kind of situation. Like Lassie gets hurt and Shawn has to help him and keep him safe. Something where it is just the two of them having to rely on each other; no real contact with other people." This has some elements of that request but doesn't fit it exactly; I hope that's okay! Happy birthday, Moondragon!

Author's Note #2: The five minutes of research I did on the Internet suggested that the kind of injury Lassiter suffers in this story would bleed heavily and look terrifying, but that if treated properly would be recoverable in a relatively short amount of time. This may or may not be true! Like Shawn, I got my medical degree from _Scrubs_ University.

Author's Note #Seriously? Can't we get on with this?: I apparently inadvertently swiped the title for this fic from **tera_gram** , who used here as an example during the case fic challenge. Tera Gram, if you're reading this, apologies for using a title you came up with originally. I had no idea that I had done so until it was pointed out to me!

"Run," Lassiter told him desperately, but as usual, Spencer ignored the direct order. He tried again.

"Spencer, what the hell are you doing? You have to go." He kept his voice as quiet as he could, trying to push back the pain throbbing in his abdomen, but unable to hide the desperation in his tone.

"And leave just when things are getting interesting?" Shawn asked, quickly pulling the button-up shirt he was wearing off, leaving him in a t-shirt. He balled up the shirt and pressed it against the place where Lassiter's own shirt had turned bright red. The pain that flared through him was sharp and bright hot, and he gasped, causing Shawn to put a hand over his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Lass," he whispered apologetically, "but you have to be quiet." He removed his hand, only to take Lassiter's hand in his own and press it against the bundle at Lassiter's side. "And you have to keep pressure on this, okay? Do you know what Jules will do to me if you die on me?"

Always with the stupid jokes, but even through his haze of pain, Lassiter could see Shawn's fear and worry written plainly in his expression. He knew as well as Lassiter did that there wasn't a way out of this warehouse without going past Franklin and his men, and in his wounded state Lassiter couldn't even stand, much less sneak around covertly. But without Lassiter slowing him down, Spencer might be able to make it. He could call for help, even though it would probably come too late for Lassiter.

Going out in a hail of bullets had always been how he imagined he might go, but this was only one bullet that had felled him, and bleeding out slowly on a cold concrete floor gave him far too much time to dwell on the things he regretted. He should have been a better husband to Victoria, a better son to his mother and Althea, a better brother to Lulu. O'Hara would be fine, better than fine, but it hurt to know that he wouldn't be around to see the kick-ass head detective that she would become.

He looked again at Shawn, who comprised maybe his biggest regret. What was it that he had been so afraid of? Rejection? The possibility (probability) that he would be laughed at? Or worse, pitied? Well, he didn't have to worry about any of that anymore. He felt numb all over, and cold. There wouldn't be any opportunity for Spencer to laugh at him or give him embarrassed, pitying looks.

He blinked slowly, looking up again at Shawn, who…had picked up his gun? He was a civilian, what the hell was he thinking?

"Sit tight, Lassie," he was saying, checking the cartridge in the gun with a proficiency that suggested Lassiter was hallucinating. "I'll have help on the way faster than you can say 'antidisestablishmentarianism'."

He started to stand, but paused, leaning over Lassiter worriedly, so close that Lassiter thought maybe he could count each individual eyelash given enough time. "Try not to lose consciousness, okay? I really will get us out of this, Lassie. Trust me."

No chance of being laughed at in the future, Lassiter reminded himself, and grabbed a fistful of Shawn's shirt in his hand, pulling him down and kissing him hard on the mouth. And oh, if he had to die today, this was the memory he wanted to take to his grave, Shawn's shocked intake of breath, and then his lips warm and yielding against Lassiter's as he kissed back. After a few seconds, Shawn pulled away, his eyes wide and stunned, his hand coming up to touch his mouth wonderingly.

"Holy incentives, Batman. We are definitely having a conversation about this later." He stood up, pointing at Lassiter's side. "Don't forget to keep pressure on that," he said, and disappeared from view. Lassiter closed his eyes and relived the kiss, and grieved the fact that it would never happen again. He licked his lips, imagining that he could still taste Shawn there.

"Antidisestablish—" he started to whisper, but passed out before he could finish the word. As he lost consciousness, he heard gunshots.

By some great miracle, he didn't die, which was going to make things very awkward.

**  
He awoke to hear a persistent, steady beeping. It was extremely annoying. _Am I in hell?_ he wondered. It made a certain amount of sense—when he was a kid, his grandmother had always assured him that he was headed straight for the devil. He forced his eyes open; everything was blurry at first, but slowly a vision of loveliness came into view. An angel, presumably. He smiled woozily, pleased to prove his grandmother wrong.

"Carlton, thank God," the angel said, and the last of the confusion in his head cleared away as he recognized O'Hara. She briefly disappeared from view and he heard her say something to someone outside of the room, and then she was back, clutching one of his hands tightly in her own.

"We were so worried, Carlton. You lost a lot of blood."

He tried to ask what had happened, but his mouth was so dry that he couldn't speak. Juliet saw his problem immediately and reached for a cup of water sitting nearby. He had just managed to take a sip with her help when they were joined by two nurses and a doctor. The next few minutes were filled with poking and prodding and invasive questions, but at the end of it everyone seemed pleased, except for Lassiter himself, who was tired and confused and couldn't remember what had happened to put him in the hospital.

"Your prognosis is excellent, Detective Lassiter," the doctor, a serious-faced grey-haired woman, told him after they were done running their tests.

"What happened?" he managed to ask through his still-dry lips. He was sitting up now, and Juliet helped him drink more water as the doctor replied.

"The bullet went through your upper abdomen, nicking your spleen but fortunately not causing any permanent damage. The real danger was in how much blood you lost."

Lassiter looked over at Juliet, completely lost. "I was shot?"

"You don't remember?"

He shook his head. "It's not unusual for there to be some temporary memory loss surrounding the trauma," the doctor said reassuringly. "Detective O'Hara, maybe you can help him piece together the events of that day. Your memories should all return in time, Detective Lassiter."

After the doctor left, Lassiter looked to O'Hara for an explanation. "Do you remember Domino Franklin?"

"Drug runner," he replied raspily. "Scum."

She smiled a little, nodding. "That's right. Two days ago, Shawn had a vision telling him where the warehouse that Franklin was headquartered in was located."

"Spencer," Lassiter murmured, the fragment of a memory coming back to him. He and Shawn, in a dark corridor, the sound of gunfire…fear seized him. "Is Shawn all right?"

"Shawn's fine," Juliet said soothingly. "He saved your life."

"Why were we there alone?" Lassiter asked, as more images of the warehouse returned to him.

"Shawn called you when he had his vision, and you went to check it out. I would have gone with you, but I was questioning the witness in the Collins case, remember?" At his nod, she continued. "Neither of us believed Shawn anyway, because—"

"We had already checked that warehouse," he interrupted, "and it was clear."

"That's right," she said, pleased with the way he was filling in the gaps. "But you got there just in time to see Franklin and one of his associates dragging a young man into the warehouse. You and Shawn both thought that he was going to be killed. You went in to try to save him. You didn't even stop to put on a vest." She stopped, blinking away tears. "That was so stupid, Carlton. Promise me you'll never do anything like that again."

"He was just a kid," Lassiter said softly, not so much defending his actions as remembering the reasons for them. "Did he make it?"

"Shawn says he ran during the commotion. We're still looking for him."

"Spencer went in with me."

"He says that you tried to stop him, but that the, uh, spirits insisted he go with you. He said that when Franklin and his men spotted the two of you and the shooting started, you pushed him down. That's when you were shot. Apparently Franklin, from his vantage point, couldn't see you after you started to retreat, and Shawn was able to drag you into a storage room without being seen."

"I don't remember that."

"Shawn said that he knew he had to get help for you immediately, and his cellphone signal wasn't working in the warehouse. So he took your gun—"

"He WHAT?" Lassiter yelped, while at the same time an image floated up in his mind of Shawn handling his gun like a pro, checking the ammunition and the safety, his expression one of grim determination.

Juliet shrugged. "I didn't know he could shoot either. Apparently, his dad taught him to when he was a kid. He's good, Carlton. He wounded two of Franklin's associates and lured Franklin out of the warehouse just as back-up arrived on the scene. A passerby had heard the gunshots and called it in."

The pain medication was starting to pull him back under, and he leaned back against his pillows, closing his eyes. Juliet patted his hand gently. "Get some rest. I'll be here when you wake up to answer any other questions you have."

Even as he drifted off to sleep, he had the nagging feeling that he still wasn't remembering something important.

As promised, Juliet was still there the next time he woke up, but so were the Wonder Twins. Lassiter heard them before he saw them as consciousness slowly returned.

"…so then Gus tried to impress her with his perfect recall of the table of elements."

"I didn't TRY to impress her, Shawn, I DID impress her."

"Then why did she go home with that other guy?"

"Uh, because he told her that he was a bodyguard for Lady Gaga and that he could get her backstage passes."

"She didn't believe that story any more than I did. She just wanted to get away from the nerdy guy forcing her to listen to his impression of Bill Nye the Science Guy."

"Hey," Gus said fiercely, "don't you dare denigrate the name of Bill Nye!"

"I would never!" Shawn protested, "I'm just saying, as far as pick-up lines go—"

"I'm sure this is very interesting, guys," Juliet said, "but I don't understand what it has to do with the construction on the freeway near the mall. All I asked was which route would be fastest to take when I return the shoes I bought last week."

"Jules, it's completely relevant because—"

Lassiter couldn't take anymore. "Oh god," he groaned, "I really did die and go to hell."

When he opened his eyes, he saw O'Hara beaming at him. "You're awake! How are you feeling? Do you want me to get the nurse?"

"Give me a minute, O'Hara," he grumbled, trying to get his bearings. Guster was sitting in a chair next to Juliet, but he didn't see Spencer at first, until he looked around the room and found him leaning against a wall with his arms crossed. When he saw that Lassiter was looking at him an apprehensive expression crossed his face, then disappeared so quickly in favor of a bright grin that Lassiter thought he might have imagined it. Again, the feeling that he was forgetting something important nagged at him, but he brushed it aside.

"Lassie, you're back!"

"It's not like he went out for coffee, Shawn," Gus said. "He's been here the whole time we've been here."

"Mmmm, I've seen no evidence of that," Shawn said. "There's no way Lassie would ever be so quiet during that discussion we had earlier of the best place in Santa Barbara to buy donuts."

Lassiter opened his mouth to say that Donnie's Donut Emporium was the only place that mattered, but Gus spoke before he could. "How are you feeling, Lassiter?" he asked, with a scolding look in Shawn's direction that clearly suggested that at least one of them knew how to talk to someone recovering in the hospital.

"Not bad," he said cautiously. Truthfully, he felt strange and off-kilter, like he was going to float away at any moment.

As if realizing what he was thinking, Juliet patted his arm consolingly. "You're still on some pretty strong medication, Carlton. The doctor said you might feel somewhat disoriented."

"If I had known Lassie was high, I would have brought my lava lamp," Shawn said.

"I'm not high, you imbecile, I'm just…" he floundered, looking to O'Hara for the right word.

"Medicated," she supplied, "and by tomorrow they'll have you on something less potent so you'll feel more like yourself." To Shawn and Gus she said, "There are some gaps in his memory about what happened that day. Shawn, I was hoping you could help him fill some of them in when he's feeling up to it."

"Sure thing," Shawn agreed, though he sounded less than enthusiastic, until he added "does that mean that you don't remember me taking on five guys in a bare-fisted brawl in order to save your life, Lassie?"

"No one's buying that, Shawn," Gus said.

"Would you believe that I raced in on my bike and carried Lassie out while doing wheelies and kicking drug dealers in the face?"

"No, we would not believe that either," Juliet informed him. She smiled gently at Lassiter, leaning forward to adjust his pillow. "It's okay if you want to go back to sleep, Carlton. The nurse told me you'd be in and out all day."

Lassiter nodded, his eyes already drooping closed as he started to nod off again, when a memory assailed him and his eyes flew open so he could glare at Shawn, whose eyes widened as he realized that Lassiter was staring at him.

"Spencer! I can't believe your nerve! Who the hell do you think you are?"

"What? No! You started it!" Shawn said, looking panicky.

"You touched my gun!" Lassiter continued, "Without my permission! Which I would never give you, by the way."

Shawn visibly relaxed, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Gee, you're welcome for saving your life, Lass. Should I have not taken your gun and left you to bleed to death and me without a weapon? And your beloved phallic replacement is perfectly fine and is being safely held as evidence. Chief Vick says that if things go as they should, you should have it back before you return to duty."

Lassiter slumped back against his pillow and closed his eyes again, all of his energy used up. "Under the circumstances, I guess I can let it slide this time," he allowed, "but never again, Spencer, understand?"

"I wouldn't dream of it. Not even if we're facing off against a zombie horde," Shawn promised, amusement apparent in his tone even if Lassiter couldn't see his face. At the moment he couldn't bring himself to care that he was being laughed at as he drifted off to sleep again. He did, however, spare just a moment to wonder what Spencer had been so adamantly denying before he realized that Lassiter was asking about his gun.

It was 3 a.m. when he remembered, jerking awake at the memory of warm breath against his lips and hazel eyes wide with shock. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

**  
He was sent home after a few days and a promise from O'Hara to the doctor that she would check on him daily. The doctor would have preferred if there was someone staying with him for the next week, but Lassiter considered that suggestion absurd and unnecessary. It wasn't as if he was planning on doing anything strenuous for a while; he was on medical leave until the doctor cleared him to go back to work, and even then he'd probably be on desk duty for a couple of weeks, until he could convince Vick that he was fine.

Until then, he could recuperate at home on his own. He would probably sleep a lot at first—the pain medicine tended to knock him for a loop—maybe watch some movies, catch up on some reading, clean his guns if he got bored. One of the nurses showed him how to change his bandages himself, so he wouldn't have to embarrass himself or O'Hara by asking her to do it.

The thing that had happened with Spencer—he couldn't even bring himself to think of the word _kiss_ —had never actually happened, he decided. Therapists and other assorted quacks might preach against the dangers of repression, but it had worked for him so far, and he was the most well-adjusted person that he knew. (O'Hara was deluded, too sunny to survive in the real world, Spencer was obviously a compulsive liar and narcissist, Spencer Senior was a hypercritical pain in the ass, and Guster was so co-dependent that even Lassiter was occasionally concerned about him. Vick might be well-adjusted, but he was just betting that she had secret idiosyncrasies that he wasn't privy to. And there was no point in even getting started on McNab.) Compared to them, he saw himself as an oasis of mental health. And the best course of action to remain mentally healthy was to pretend that certain events had never transpired.

The only wrench in this plan, as far as he could tell, was that Spencer was a loose cannon who might decide at any moment to tell everyone he knew at the top of his lungs that Lassiter had ki—done _that_. Well, if that happened then Lassiter would just claim that he had been delirious from his injury, and hallucinated that Spencer was his ex-wife or Sophia Loren or something. He did not like deception, but sometimes a little white lie was necessary.

O'Hara drove him home and got him settled, even after he told her that he would be fine taking a taxi from the hospital, but as soon as he was through the door, he waved her off.

"I don't need you mother-henning over me all day, O'Hara. I promise to take it easy. Hell, my big plan for the afternoon is taking a nap. You have to go to the station and make sure that Dobson and Raymond aren't screwing up any of our cases."

"Okay," she agreed reluctantly, "but I'm coming back after work. I'll bring you something to eat and help you with your bandages."

"I can do that myself," he said, but recognizing the stubborn expression on her face added quickly, "but dinner would be nice. Maybe some soup from Rosa's Diner?"

She nodded, pleased that he wasn't going to fight her on this. "I don't know what time I'll be able to get away tonight, but I'll just let myself in with the key you gave me for emergencies."

After he finally shooed her out the door, he was free to stop pretending that he felt fine and shuffle slowly to his couch. He was sore, aching, and exhausted. He turned his TV on and fell asleep to the mindless chatter of an infomercial.

Chief Vick called a couple of hours later to check on him, waking him up. He had a feeling O'Hara had put her up to calling, but Vick didn't ask too many nosy questions about how he was doing, so he tolerated her with relative good grace. She did remind him that he would have to endure at least one session with the department psychologist before returning to duty, which pained him almost as much as his actual injury.

"It will be fine, Carlton," Karen said firmly. "Just don't bring up the squirrels again, okay?"

"I'll avoid the topic if he will," Lassiter agreed grudgingly.

After that, he cautiously made his way to the kitchen for a glass of juice. He prided himself on having a high pain threshold, so it was distressing to be laid so low by a single bullet. Everyone else—the doctors, nurses, O'Hara—seemed to think he was doing quite well by being able to return home after less than a week of hospital care, and the medical professionals assured him that if he continued to recover at this rate then he would be back at work in less than a month, but he wasn't accustomed to so much inactivity, and along with the dull persistent ache (a remnant as much of the surgery to remove the bullet and repair the spleen as of the gunshot itself) it was impossible not to be constantly reminded of his shortcomings.

He couldn't stop berating himself for the decisions that had led to his being in this situation. Why hadn't he called for back-up immediately when he realized that Spencer was right about the warehouse being Franklin's hide-out? Why hadn't he stopped to grab a vest out of the trunk of his car before rushing headlong into danger? Why had he allowed Spencer to accompany him into the warehouse in the first place?

And why in the name of Smith & Wesson had he kissed Spencer?

Repressing didn't work as well as he had hoped when he had so much godforsaken time in which to _think_. He had thought too much in the hospital, but now he almost wished himself back there, where at least there were near-constant interruptions to his self-recriminations. Here at home, there was only the television or the Internet, and neither was at all useful in keeping his thoughts at bay.

Why had he kissed Spencer? Because he had wanted to for a long time. It was as simple as that, no matter how much he hated himself for wanting someone whose favorite pastime was proving him wrong. In that space of time when he was certain that he was going to die, letting down his defenses enough to throw caution to the wind and share that one moment with Spencer had seemed not just desirable but necessary.

Of course, as with so many of his romantic decisions, it had been a horrible mistake. He wasn't safely dead, unable to regret giving in to his longing, and from what he could remember of that one somewhat awkward hospital visit that Spencer had made, it didn't appear that he had exactly been swept off his feet by the gesture.

Checking the clock, he saw that it was time for him to take another pain pill. He hated the way the medication dulled his thinking, but at the same time it would take the edge off the ache in his side and probably cause him to fall asleep again. Asleep, he didn't have to work at forgetting and couldn't wallow around in his bitter regrets. That sounded good.

It was, again, his phone that woke him up. He reached for it groggily, torn out of a vivid dream involving Clint Eastwood and Guster working in a fast food restaurant. "Lassiter," he snapped into the phone, temporarily forgetting that he wasn't on duty and that this was unlikely to be a call concerning a case.

"Hi, Carlton," O'Hara sounded brisk, busy. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," he replied automatically, heartily sick of hearing those two words come out of his mouth.

"Were you sleeping? I'm sorry I woke you up. It's just that—thanks, Buzz, just put it on my desk please—I'm not going to be able to come by tonight after all. We got a break on the Jaworski case, and I'm probably going to be here all night."

Lassiter was hit by a series of emotions: unexpected disappointment that he was going to be alone with his own thoughts for the evening, curiosity over the resolution of a murder that he and O'Hara had been working on for a month, and most of all, intense, searing, jealousy that she was able to work on the case while he wasn't.

"Was it the brother-in-law? I suspected that bastard from day one, you know I did. Look, I can call a cab and be there in half an hour to help with the interrogation."

"Don't be ridiculous, Carlton, you can't come to work. You're on medical leave. And no, it wasn't the brother-in-law, it was the…" she trailed off, and when she resumed speaking it was in a crisp, professional tone. "I'm sorry, I can't divulge the details of an ongoing investigation."

"O'Hara! What the hell?"

There was a long pause, and then she whispered frantically, "I'm so sorry, Carlton, Chief Vick walked up and she wants me to keep you out of the loop about what's going on while you're on leave. She doesn't want anything causing you stress while you recover. But I promise I'll tell you all about it tomorrow. What I really called to tell you is—and please don't be mad—but since I can't come, I gave my key to Shawn and he's going to bring you that soup you wanted."

"You did… _O'Hara_!" he spluttered, outraged, "Get it back from him right now! I don't need any damn soup."

"Yes, you do. I'm not letting you go a day without someone checking in on you, and Shawn volunteered, so just suck it up, mister." He glared uselessly at the phone, recognizing O'Hara's don't-fuck-with-me tone as being the final word on the matter.

"I'm confiscating that damn key," he snapped.

"You'll do no such thing. I wouldn't have given it to him in the first place, but I didn't know how you'd be feeling tonight, or if you'd be asleep when he got there. Shawn will give it back to me tomorrow, and…" she paused, and he could hear the low murmur of another voice speaking to her. "I'm sorry Carlton, I have to go. Shawn will be there soon with your soup. Be nice to him. He wanted to do something nice for you."

She hung up, and Lassiter resisted—barely—the urge to throw his phone against the wall.

Spencer wanted to do something nice for him, huh? More like, he probably wanted to come by and rub it in Carlton's face that Shawn had saved his life. Sure, he hadn't done anything of the sort during the hospital visit, but O'Hara had been present then, and maybe that had kept Spencer on his best behavior—not that her presence dissuaded him from being an ass most days. But Lassiter couldn't fathom any other reason for Spencer wanting to come, except…oh. Of course. Not to gloat about saving his life, but to mock him over the kiss. Or, best case scenario, to ask him what the hell that had been about.

 _You have a plan, Lassiter_ , he reminded himself. If he asks, say you thought he was Rene Russo or Lauren Bacall. Hell, tell him that you thought he was Harrison Ford. Anything but the truth. And if he doesn't ask, be grateful and keep your mouth shut.

He heard a tentative knock on the door, followed by the key turning in the lock. "Lassie? Don't shoot, it's me."

How is that incentive not to shoot, he wanted to ask, but he wasn't actually in the mood to joke about shooting people at the moment.

"I have soup," Shawn continued, still standing in the doorway, "that tomato bisque you like, with the little croutons. And I also got you a piece of chocolate cheesecake."

Lassiter's mouth watered in anticipation; after days of hospital food, chocolate cheesecake sounded damn near like heaven. "All right, you can come in. But you can't stay long."

"But I brought a movie too," Shawn said, waggling the bag he was carrying enticingly as he came in. "Jules seemed to think you might be lonely, stuck in your house all day all by yourself."

"I don't get lonely," Lassiter scoffed, frowning as Shawn stopped short, staring at him. "What?"

"Lassie, you're all _scruffy_ ," Shawn said wonderingly, "and _casual_ ," he added, waving a hand to indicate the pajama ensemble that Lassiter was sporting.

Lassiter touched his face self-consciously, jerking his hand away as he realized what he was doing. "I haven't shaved all week," he admitted, "and I didn't realize that you expected me to dress up for you."

"Oh no," Shawn said, setting down the bag on the table in front of Lassiter and pulling out containers of food and cans of soda, "don't get me wrong. I like the look. You should wear scruffy more often."

"It's unprofessional. And like I would take fashion advice from you, anyway," Lassiter sneered, grabbing the soup and a spoon like he was afraid Shawn might take it away from him. "You dress like a hobo."

"Ah, but a stylish hobo, with great hair," Shawn said, picking up the sandwich he had brought for himself. He had settled into the easy chair to the right of the couch, and he slouched there loose-limbed and easy, and Lassiter hated him a little for how goddamned attractive he was.

Lassiter watched him as he took a bite of the soup, unsettled and off-balance by the comfort Spencer exhibited sitting in his living room, like it was something they did all the time. It was, in fact, something they had never done, and it made Lassiter uneasy to have Spencer in his private space like this.

"Why are you here?" he asked abruptly, and Shawn paused mid-bite to look at him quizzically.

"Because Jules was tied up with a case and she—"

"Spare me," Lassiter interrupted, clutching his soup container and glaring at Spencer. "Even if you were just trying to get in O'Hara's good graces, you could have just dropped off the food and made sure I wasn't dead. But instead, you're…what? Hanging out with me?"

Spencer had the temerity to look mildly amused. "How is it that you can make a phrase like 'hanging out' sound like some kind of crazy hipster slang?"

"Don't change the subject," Lassiter growled. "If you're here to gloat over saving my ass, then get it over with and get out."

Now Shawn looked confused rather than amused. "Gloat? Over what? We're Even Steven, Lassie. Don't you…oh, that's right. Jules said you had some holes in your memory."

Lassiter cursed himself for being the one to bring up the events of that day, but Spencer being in his space made him feel defensive, which automatically put him on the offensive. Regardless, maybe it was better to find out what was going through Spencer's twisted little mind sooner rather than later, and probably better as well to do it here, in privacy, not in front of every single one of his coworkers.

"I don't have to remember every second of that day to know that I owe you," he snapped, the taste of admitting that a bitter pill to swallow.

"It's your gratitude that really makes it all worthwhile," Shawn snarked. "But seriously Lassie, don't you remember what happened before I heroically and selflessly risked my own life to save yours?"

Lassiter certainly did remember; that was the problem. "I don't remember anything from the time we went inside the warehouse until the time I woke up in the hospital," he lied smoothly, looking up to meet Shawn's gaze head-on, only to be surprised by the way Shawn was avoiding his eyes.

"You took the bullet for me," Shawn said bluntly. "You shoved me out of the way and got shot for your trouble. It's too bad you can't remember it, because it was pretty fucking badass, Lassie. So yeah, maybe I ended up saving your life by getting us out of there, but that was only necessary because you saved my life first."

For just a moment, Lassiter forgot all about inappropriate kissing choices as he savored this piece of information. He vaguely remembered O'Hara saying something about him pushing Spencer out of the way when he had first woken up in the hospital, but it had been dismissed as unimportant among all the other information occupying his mind, like the fact that he had been shot, and the fact that he had kissed Spencer. Believing that he had been rescued like some damsel in distress by Spencer, of all people, had been galling, but this was much more acceptable. Getting shot protecting a civilian might even be considered heroic, unless you took into account the fact that he had allowed said civilian to walk into danger in the first place.

"So what is this?" Lassiter asked, waving his hand to indicate the food and Spencer himself. "Guilt?"

"I prefer to think of it as two compadres spending their down time together," Shawn said. He had, apparently, lost his appetite, and had wrapped his half-uneaten sandwich back up and put it back in the bag.

"We're not friends," Lassiter scoffed, going back to his soup.

"We're not _not_ friends," Shawn countered, exasperated. "Come on Lassie, I know you like me at least a little bit. Maybe more than a little bit."

At that, Lassiter froze, then forced himself to swallow the soup on his spoon, resolutely making no attempt to respond and ignoring the way that he could feel Shawn watching him, gauging his reaction.

"So, you don't remember anything else from after we went into the warehouse?" Shawn asked carefully, after a few seconds of awkward silence.

"Nope. Not a thing."

"Huh." Shawn looked doubtful, but didn't inquire further. Instead, he reached for the bag he had brought in with him. "I didn't think to bring a movie until I stopped to get gas, so the only choices I had were the movies on the $5.99 rack at the Stop'n'Go. Do you want to watch Geena Davis as an amnesiac badass superspy or Ah-nold as a barbarian?"

Lassiter set his now empty soup container aside and leaned back against the sofa, closing his eyes wearily. "You don't have to stay and entertain me, Spencer. You can tell O'Hara that you did your good deed for the day with a clear conscience."

"Maybe you're entertaining me," Shawn said. "Gus is on a date, and I kind of forgot to pay the cable bill, and Jules kicked me out of the station and told me not to come back until tomorrow, so it's either this or go bug Henry."

Lassiter doubted that that was true; Spencer could certainly find companionship without much trouble if he wanted to, but he found that he didn't have the energy—or really the desire—to argue the point. Spencer wanted to hang around and watch a movie? Fine. He didn't seem inclined to press Lassiter about his memories of the day of the shooting, and he had brought cheesecake, which earned him a little leeway.

 _And you like having him here_ , a tiny voice in the back of his brain piped up, but he shoved that little voice back into a closet and slammed the door shut. Carefully, he stood up and attempted to sound disinterested as he said "Stay and watch a movie if you want. I have to go change my bandages."

"Do you, uh, need any help?" Shawn asked, sounding embarrassed that he was even asking the question.

"God, no. Just stay out here and don't touch anything."

"Not anything? Can I touch the TV remote control?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"What about this chair I'm sitting in?"

"Spencer…"

"Am I allowed to touch the pina colada cheesecake that I bought for myself?"

Lassiter gave up. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Was that a yes or a no?"

"Don't make me change my mind about letting you stay," Lassiter said, already halfway out of the room.

Spencer's mouth just kept running. "What about myself? Am I allowed to touch myself, Lassie?"

Lassiter paused, casting a disbelieving look over his shoulder. "Uh, never mind," Shawn said hastily, "I just heard how that sounded, and I'd like for you to pretend that I never said it."

"Just…shut up, Spencer," Lassiter muttered, and hurried on to the bathroom, hoping to banish the uninvited image that had sprung up in his mind.

"Goddamnit," Lassiter snarled as the roll of bandages hit the floor. He braced himself to pick them up, already dreading the pain that was sure to come from bending over, but before he could, he heard a rustle of noise outside the bathroom door.

"Lassie, are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" he snapped, but reconsidered the words immediately, weighing the embarrassment of allowing Spencer to see him vulnerable against the pain that would come from trying to dig the bandages out from behind the clothes hamper where they had rolled. He sighed, giving in to the inevitable.

"Actually, Spencer, could you give me a hand?" he asked, pushing the bathroom door open to allow Shawn entrance.

"Sure," Shawn said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Did I ever tell you that I'm a trained medical professional? I mean, I've seen every episode of _Scrubs_ , and that's almost like going to medical school, right?"

"I'm not asking you to perform surgery, dumbass. I just need you to pick up the bandages I dropped," Lassiter said, gesturing to where they lay. Shawn bent over easily to retrieve them, and not for the first time, Lassiter reminded himself not to take for granted all the simple things he could do when he wasn't injured. He held out his hand to take the bandages back, and Spencer hesitantly handed them over.

"Thanks. I'll just be a few minutes if you want to go ahead and start the movie," Lassiter said in dismissal, but Shawn didn't leave. Instead, his gaze zeroed in on the wound and the stitches from where the surgeons had opened him up to remove the bullet. Somehow, he hadn't thought about the fact that he was half-naked in the small bathroom with Shawn, but now with those hazel eyes on him he was self-conscious. He should tell Spencer to get out, but somehow felt that doing so would make him seem weak in some way, so instead he resolved to slap the bandage on as quickly as possible, button his shirt up, and pretend that this wasn't weirding him out at all.

Shawn, though, wasn't going to make that easy. "Oh, Lassie," he breathed out softly, "that looks really bad."

For a second, Lassiter thought he was making another dumb joke— _oh, Lassie, no one wants to see you without a shirt, it's terrible_ —but on the heels of that thought came the realization that Shawn was talking about the evidence of the bullet and the surgery. If it were anyone else, Lassiter might even have thought that he looked and sounded upset.

"It's not that bad," he said gruffly, dabbing on the antibiotic cream. "The doctors seem to think that I'll be able to go back to work within a month."

"I'm sorry," Shawn said quietly, and Lassiter looked up at him, shocked by the seriousness in his voice. "It's my fault it happened."

He had always thought that it would be satisfying to hear Spencer admit that he had been wrong about something, but it turned out that it just made him uncomfortable.

"Don't be an idiot, Spencer. I'm the one who went in without a vest, and I should never have allowed you to go in with me. What the hell was I thinking? It was my own damn fault that this happened. I'm lucky that Vick's not talking about suspending me."

Shawn shook his head. "I was the one who wanted to rush in all balls-to-the-wall. If I had given you a second to _think_ , you would at least have grabbed a vest."

His attempt to claim culpability just made Lassiter testy. "I'm the cop, it's my job to think about these things. Stop trying to take credit for fucking things up when I'm the one responsible." Having Spencer in the small space with him was too distracting; he had forgotten to tear off pieces of adhesive tape to secure the gauze with, and when he reached for the tape to do so, he knocked over the roll of gauze again. Shawn bent over to pick it up, but instead of handing it back he held on to it and glared at Lassiter.

"Don't try and stop me from taking credit for fucking things up when that's exactly what I did. And would you give your stupid pride a rest for the night and let me help you with this? It's gonna be midnight before you get this stupid bandage on at this rate."

Lassiter opened his mouth to protest that he would already be done if Spencer hadn't interrupted him, but the words caught in his throat when Shawn grabbed the adhesive tape from him, deftly tearing off a strip as with his other hand he pressed the gauze gently into place. Lassiter stared down at the top of Spencer's head, bent over as he worked, and willed himself not to think about how this was Shawn touching him.

"You should sue," Shawn said, and Lassiter blinked down at him, confused.

"Who? You?"

He laughed, pressing a second piece of tape into place. "Only if you're after my vintage collection of _Tiger Beat_ magazines. No, I meant the hospital. They shaved your magnificent pelt."

Lassiter was finding it difficult to keep track of the conversation, what with the distraction of Shawn's warm breath against his chest and the light strokes of his fingertips as he secured the bandage. That was okay though, because Shawn kept talking. Babbling, really.

"I mean, I understand, I guess, why they had to. You wouldn't want to be ripping out hair every time you changed your bandage, even a manly man like you wouldn't want that, but it still seems like a crime against nature, and you're a crime fighter and all, and now there's this bald spot right here, it's like a miniature Patrick Stewart took up residence..." his fingers trailed down, away from the bandage, a surely accidental caress that was quickly snatched away as Shawn stepped back hurriedly, Lassiter only catching a glimpse of flushed cheeks and bright eyes as he turned to go back into the hallway.

"I'm gonna go put on a movie now Lassie, okay?" he disappeared down the hall. Lassiter sighed, pulling his shirt closed and buttoning it slowly. Even Spencer had been embarrassed by the brief, impersonal intimacy, and he had long harbored the belief that Spencer couldn't be embarrassed by anything. The exception, apparently, was Lassiter being useless and vulnerable. Part of him wished that Spencer would just leave him alone to his misery, while another part of him wanted the exact opposite.

He went back out to the living room, pausing only to get the bottle holding the painkillers he was supposed to take before bed, which the doctor had told him was stronger than the pills he took during the day. He figured he would take a couple before the movie was over and fall asleep immediately after Spencer left, the better not to think back on the evening's awkwardness.

Spencer was sitting with a pillow in his lap hugged against his chest, his eyes on the TV. "I went Geena Davis, but if you want the Barbarianator, I'll switch DVDs."

"This is fine," Lassiter said, settling on to the couch, where he spent the next little while trying to force himself to watch the movie instead of Spencer, but he found it hard to concentrate when there was so much swirling around in his mind.

"What happened after I passed out?" he asked abruptly, reaching for the remote control to pause the movie.

"Dude, this is the best part! She's gonna smoke that guy for torturing her."

"Spencer, I want to know what happened. You took my gun?"

Shawn sighed and hugged the pillow even tighter. "Yeah, Lassie, I did. I promise I didn't damage it, okay? Jules checked it afterward and everything."

Lassiter scowled. "That's not what I was asking. Although, if I find even the tiniest dent in it…but what I want to know is what happened. You…what? Shot your way out of there?"

Shaking his head, Shawn said, "That makes it sound a lot more Rambo than what actually happened. I mostly snuck my way out of there."

"O'Hara said that you shot someone," Lassiter said. It seemed insane to him when she had said it, and it still did now as he watched Shawn fidget uncomfortably in his seat, plucking restlessly at his jeans with nervous fingers.

"I did, yeah. Two guys, actually. One of them was going towards the storage closet where I left you, and…look, it's boring. They're both gonna be fine, they were just wounded. Not nearly as badly as you were. I'll bring you the police report if you really want to know what happened, but seriously Lassie, talking about it is going to put me to sleep, and I don't even have my blankie and Mr. Fluffypants with me."

"Mr. Fluffypants?" Lassiter echoed, unable to stop himself from asking.

"To the untrained eye he's merely a plush bunny rabbit, but in reality he's a conduit to the spirits who whispers secrets in my ear in the middle of the night."

Lassiter raised an eyebrow, ignoring the psychic bullshit in favor of the more important revelation. "You sleep with a stuffed rabbit?"

"Only when I don't have someone else to cuddle up to," Shawn replied matter-of-factly, reaching for the remote control to restart the movie. Which was just as well, because Lassiter certainly had nothing remotely useful to say after that. He reached for the pills he had brought in earlier and swallowed two; hopefully they would help him get a decent night's sleep after the confusing night he was having.

He wasn't sure how much had time had passed when he felt someone shaking his shoulder gently, and Shawn's voice when he spoke seemed to come from a great distance. "Come on Lassie, you'll be more comfortable if you sleep in your bed. Just get up and...okay, I can help you up." A warm hand clasped his wrist, and with Spencer's help he heaved himself to his feet, swaying perilously until Shawn's arm went around him for support.

"Great googly moogly, Lassie, you're so skinny, how are you so heavy? Do you snack on lead weights?"

It was nice to be pressed this close against Spencer, Lassiter thought absently as they made their way to the bedroom. Nice to have the other man's warmth seeping into him, nice to feel the way Shawn fit against him.

"One foot in front of the other," Shawn was saying encouragingly, "you can do it Lassie, I've seen you walk plenty of times!"

He wanted to tell Spencer to shut it, but it would have taken too much energy. As it was, he managed to make it to the bed, dropping onto it so quickly that he accidentally pulled Shawn down with him.

"If I had known this is where buying you dinner would get me, I would have done it ages ago," Shawn joked, and it was probably Lassiter's imagination that he sounded nervous. Lassiter looked blearily down at him, not quite remembering how Spencer had ended up on the bed, but definitely not complaining about it. It was probably a dream, anyway, he figured, a remnant of Spencer being in his home. Although, for a dream he felt surprisingly solid. Hesitantly he reached over and poked at Shawn's forehead, checking for realness.

Shawn blinked at him, opening his mouth like he was going to say something, but nothing came out. Well, it was definitely a dream if Spencer didn't have anything to say, which meant that it was safe to trace his finger down to the tip of Shawn's nose, where he paused. Shawn's eyes crossed as he followed the progress of Lassiter's finger, but he still didn't say anything, so Lassiter dropped his finger down onto Shawn's mouth, lightly tracing the outline of his lips, marveling at how vivid this dream was. It was like he could actually feel Spencer squirm beneath him, even feel him hardening as he stroked his finger across those soft, full lips.

He wanted, very much, to taste those lips again, so he leaned forward to do exactly that.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Shawn finally whispered, He pushed Lassiter off of him and sat up, breathing hard and babbling. "You are so stoned right now, Lassie, and this is so wrong, and I'm a bad person for not stopping it sooner and I'm going to go now and hope you don't remember this either."

Lassiter closed his eyes, disappointed that this dream was ending like so many others. It wasn't fair that even his subconscious version of Shawn didn't want him. He felt the blanket being pulled over him, and he opened his eyes to see that Dream!Shawn was still standing there, tucking the blanket around him, but not, apparently, climbing back into the bed with him, so he gave into the lure of unconsciousness and shut his eyes again.

"G'night, Lassie," Dream!Shawn whispered, and Lassiter felt something soft and warm brush against his forehead before he finally fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Back in his own apartment, Shawn tried to avoid thinking about what had happened earlier, or what he might feel about it. It was too serious, too fraught, too important for him to look at too closely. He was not cut out for introspection or examining his feelings; he was cut out for fun things, like video games and irritating Henry and psychic detective work. He put this into practice as soon as he got home, clutching his Xbox controller like it was a lifeline and staring determinedly at the screen in front of him.

It was no use, though. Even with his formidable powers of avoidance he couldn't stop thinking about Lassie. Lassiter. Carlt…nope, that sounded wrong no matter what. Lassiepants. The Lassinator. Sir Lassalot.

When Lassiter had kissed him in that warehouse, Shawn had been stupefied. Astounded. Boggled. His gasted had been well and truly flabbered. There hadn't been much time to react or think about it in the moment, though, given the way Lassiter had been bleeding heavily and with the armed drug dealers looking for them and all. Later, when there was a chance to sit down and turn over the events of that day in his mind, he tried to remember exactly how Lassiter's face had looked right before he laid that kiss on Shawn. Lassie's eyes had been dilated with shock, and his mouth (lips softer than Shawn had ever imagined, not that he would admit to imagining such a thing before) set in a grim line of pain, but there had never been a moment in which he had seemed confused or uncertain. Shawn was positive that Lassie had known exactly what he was doing, and exactly who he was doing it with.

But what did that mean now? It was complicated, and Shawn was only a fan of complicated when it referred to his own schemes. Lassiter had clearly thought that he was dying (so much blood, even the memory of it makes Shawn feel panicky), and who was to say that he was at all interested in pursuing things any further? When Shawn and Gus had visited him in the hospital—Shawn wary the whole time because he wasn't certain how Lassiter would react to seeing him again—he had been relieved that the trauma from the incident had apparently caused Lassiter to forget the moments leading up to him blacking out. Okay, and maybe a little disappointed too, if he was honest with himself, but if Lassie didn't remember, probably it was for the best if Shawn pretended that it never happened. He was good at pretending.

It wasn't disinterest that made him reluctant; hell, it made his head spin around like that chick in _The Exorcist_ to think that Lassiter might be attracted to him. But he was also mindful of the fact that the only proof of this he had so far had come when Lassiter was under duress or sedation.

Speaking of sedation…he shivered at the memory of being pinned down by Lassiter on the bed, of the way Lassie had gently touched his face, like he didn't believe that Shawn was actually there. Every joke Shawn had wanted to make, every distraction or lewd come-on or ridiculous non-sequitur that would have normally raced through his mind had been silenced, stilled, by Lassie's intense (though drugged) gaze and by how much Shawn wanted this to be real.

That thought made him freeze, blinking at the TV screen as he lost the game he had been playing. He wanted this to be real? He thought back to how he had felt on Lassiter's bed, not just the lusty sexy feelings, which had been overwhelming, but also the feeling of _right_ and _safe_. He didn't think he was feeling that way just because of all the guns he knew Lassiter had hidden around his home.

Lassie had saved his life, and Shawn was still grappling with what that meant, as well as with the guilt that came with knowing he had put Lassiter in that position in the first place (when there were so many better positions Shawn could have him in…no, that wasn't a productive train of thought, unless the only thing he was interested in producing was a boner. He forced himself back to serious, unsexy thoughts.)

On the one hand, he was certain that Lassiter would have done the same for anyone; it wasn't simply that he was trained to protect civilians, it was that he really was the kind of John Wayne/Clint Eastwood/Sigourney Weaver hero who would always try to defend others from danger. Even annoying fake psychics.

On the other hand…when Shawn replayed those seconds between the sound of the shot and Lassiter's gasp of pain, what he remembered was Lassiter pushing him down and away, the flare of fear in his eyes as he snapped out Shawn's name.

Lassiter might step into danger for anyone, but for Shawn he had been _scared_. And for as long as he had known Lassie, Shawn had never before seen him scared. More even than the desperate kiss, the fact that Lassiter had been scared for him convinced Shawn that there might be something here that would be worth battling against not only his own fear of commitment, but Lassiter's innate repression as well.

If he wanted to figure out how Lassiter really felt about him—and how he felt about how Lassiter felt about him—further investigation was going to be necessary. Possibly even further experimentation. That was cool. Shawn enjoyed experimenting.

He still had Juliet's key, and she was so caught up in closing her big case that he figured she probably wouldn't even think about it until the next day. The responsible thing to do, he decided, would be to check on Lassiter in the morning, maybe greet him with muffins and coffee and see if he even remembered nearly macking on Shawn the night before. He had been pretty stoned, and Shawn wasn't counting on him remembering anything.

He spent a nearly sleepless night, which wasn't entirely unusual since Lassiter had been shot. There were the memories of Lassiter pale and bloody sitting alongside the memories of Shawn actually shooting the two men who had stood in the way of him getting out of the warehouse and getting help, and neither set of memories made it easy for him to rest. It was true that he had only wounded the men he shot, shooting one in the foot and the other in the shoulder, but Shawn had never really imagined he would use his skills with a gun against another human being. He didn't like hurting people, not even in the moments in which he had pulled the trigger, when he had been running on fear and anger. He didn't regret it, not for a minute, because his life and Lassiter's had been on the line, but that didn't mean that he enjoyed the memory of the man he had shot in the shoulder screaming in pain when the bullet hit, and thanks to his ridiculous memory, that was the kind of thing that played on a loop in his mind when he was tired and stressed out.

He tried to relax by thinking happy thoughts, but somehow that led his mind to circling back around to what it had felt like to be held down by the pleasant weight of Lassiter on top him on a bed, the crinkles of confusion around Lassie's drug-dilated eyes, the tiny frown of concentration that he had worn as he traced his finger down Shawn's face. Replaying it in his mind, Shawn could feel the soft cotton of Lassie's pajamas and the plushness of the bedspread beneath him, could remember exactly what it had been like to be caught between the yielding comfort of the bed and lean strength of Lassiter's body.

Huh. That was not a particularly relaxing thought at all, he realized, licking his lips and reaching down to rub at himself through the boxers he had worn to bed. Taking himself in hand with the reminder that this was a time-honored method of relaxation, he thought again to the sight of Lassiter with his shirt unbuttoned in his bathroom, trying not to focus on the stitches or the scarring but instead on shoulders arms chest, the soft mat of hair, the slightly pebbled nipples, the way Lassiter had caught his breath when Shawn had touched him.

Afterwards, he finally fell into a restless sleep, dreaming that he was back in the warehouse aiming the gun at one of the drug runners, only to realize after he pulled the trigger that the person he had shot was Lassiter.

**  
When Lassiter stepped out of the shower the next morning, he heard a distinct thump in his kitchen.

Someone had broken in. He almost smiled as he reached for the gun hidden in the shower hi-fi and pulled on his robe. Whatever idiot had breached the home of the Head Detective of the SBPD was going to be in for quite a surprise. It was a welcome distraction on a morning that had seen him waking up with very little memory of the events of the night before after he and Spencer had started watching the movie. It was frustrating, and even a bit frightening, to not know if he had found some new and exciting way to embarrass himself in front of Spencer.

As he started down the hallway, gun in hand and prepared for action, moving as quietly as he could, he realized that he could smell coffee, and it occurred to him that it would be a very unusual criminal who stopped to make coffee.

 _Of course,_ he realized when he reached the kitchen and saw Shawn there, standing with his back to Lassiter as he searched the cabinets for something, _who else?_

"Spencer, what the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, as Shawn turned, eyes widening as he took in the gun in Lassiter's hand.

"Now is that any way to greet a guy who brings you muffins?" Shawn asked, tilting his head consideringly as he took in Lassiter's robe and still dripping hair. "You know, I was thinking that you came in here all commando with the gun, but...you really are going commando there, aren't you?"

Lassiter flushed under Shawn's scrutiny but forced himself not to react otherwise except to set his gun down on the counter. He thought perhaps that Shawn's eyes lingered on him a for a bit longer than was strictly polite, but he fought the urge to look down to make sure that his robe was securely fastened, and after a moment Shawn shook his head like a wet dog shaking off water and looked away, resuming his interrupted search through Lassiter's kitchen cabinets.

"Like I said, I brought muffins, and I made coffee. I was just trying to figure out where you hide the coffee cups."

Lassiter reached deftly around Shawn to grab the coffee mug sitting in the drainer next to the sink, ignoring both the ache around his stitches and the smell of Shawn's shampoo. "I use this one every day."

There was an awkward silence as Lassiter began the ritual of adding sugar and cream to his coffee, seemingly ignoring Shawn's presence in his kitchen.

"Uh, do you have a second cup?" Shawn asked, "Or are we sharing? I'm down with that. It's not my ideal way of swapping spit with you, but I could really use the caffeine this morning."

Leaning back against the counter, Lassiter regarded Shawn with a frown. "I know that I didn't invite you over for coffee," he said, shaking off the dumb "swapping spit" comment as one of the many meaningless things that flew out of Spencer's mouth on a regular basis.

Shawn waved a hand lackadaisically near his head. "I'm sensing that you don't remember much about what happened after the movie started last night. The spirits tell me—"

"Don't do that," Lassiter said sharply, annoyed because it was true, and also because he could barely tolerate being polite about Spencer's lies down at the station; he wasn't going to put up with it in his own kitchen. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for being attracted to someone who couldn't open his mouth without lying. Spencer shrugged, looking forlornly in the direction of the coffee pot.

"I'm just sayin', Lassie, you could have invited me for coffee, or danced a samba, or stared meaningfully into my eyes, or donated a large sum of money to the Democratic party, and you wouldn't remember any of it this morning."

"I didn't do any of those things," Lassiter snapped, wondering if he needed to check his bank account for unauthorized transactions.

Shawn grinned like he knew what Lassiter was thinking, which was ridiculous because if he were actually psychic he would probably have hit Lassiter with a sexual harassment suit by now. "Maybe you did, maybe you didn't. I choose to believe that you would have invited me, had you not passed out like Gus did after he downed two wine coolers at Ross Emmington's birthday party in eleventh grade."

"I'm not responsible for the things you choose to believe," Lassiter grumbled, studying Shawn for a few seconds more before his eyes drifted over to the bag on the counter. "What kind of muffins did you bring?"

"Blueberry for you," Shawn answered promptly, opening the bag to display fat, fluffy, muffiny goodness, "because it's a traditional, true-blue flavor that matches your eyes. Banana chocolate chip for me, because it's a happy-go-lucky flavor that symbolizes my free spirit and desire to add candy to everything."

Lassiter wavered for a moment, then sighed. "Coffee cups are in the cabinet over the sink. Hand over the muffins."

Shawn's expression was one of triumph as he handed Lassiter the bag, then went after his coffee. As he bit into the muffin, Lassiter thought that Spencer looked unusually tired, his eyes bloodshot and his mannerisms toned down from his usual exuberance. It made him wonder why he would be here at a relatively early hour of the morning, when Lassiter assumed he typically slept in until Guster made him get up.

"Why are you here this morning? Did O'Hara put you up to this too?"

Shawn took a bite out of his banana-and-chocolate-chip muffin before replying. "I don't only do nice things when Jules tells me to. You were out like a light last night, Lassie. I just thought I would make sure that you were okay this morning."

Lassiter frowned, sinking into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. It made him sound feeble, that he was someone Spencer felt obligated to check up on, and he hated it."It's those goddamn pills," he muttered. "I'm going to flush them down the toilet today."

Shawn's face scrunched up in an expression of concern. "Uhh, is that a good idea, Lassie? I know you're more macho than the love child of Burt Reynolds and Steve McQueen, but even you need something to help with the pain."

"I have ibuprofen," Lassiter said decisively. "The pills are a crutch. The sooner I get rid of them, the sooner I can be back at work." He wasn't going to spend another morning wondering what he had done the night before to cause Spencer of all people to worry about him; besides, Carlton Jebediah Lassiter didn't need anything to help him deal with what was essentially a flesh wound. He hated, _hated_ beyond all else feeling out of control and weak. It was bad enough that he was laid up with this goddamned injury, but not being able to remember his actions from the night before, especially when Spencer had been there to witness them, was even worse. He wondered just how badly he had humiliated himself.

"Without that crap in my system, I could probably be back at work by the end of the week. Maybe even tomorrow," he said decisively, nodding to himself and missing the way that Shawn was rolling his eyes. He felt better today than he had yesterday, he had a high pain threshold and wasn't in an overwhelming amount of pain anyway, and if his head was clear...

"Heads up, Lassie," he heard Shawn say, and looked up just in time to see an apple from out of his fruit bowl being tossed his way. Automatically he raised his hand to catch it, and visibly winced at the jagged pain that went through his upper abdomen when he extended his arm too far, pulling at his stitches, causing him to miss the apple entirely. It hit the floor and rolled into a corner.

"Sorry," Shawn said apologetically, "but you were drifting off into delusionville there, and I thought I should put a stop to it. You're not quite ready to go back to work, Lass. Even if you weren't in any pain, you're still recovering from the blood loss and not quite up to speed. Anyway, Chief Vick would kick you out if you even tried to get into the building."

"You've officially worn out your welcome," Lassiter snapped, trying not to give away just how much that had actually hurt. "Get out. But leave the muffins."

 _No_ , Shawn wanted to argue, _this is not how this morning was supposed to go_. He had come here with the intention of a fresh start between them. He would warm things up with muffins and coffee and flirting, and see if he could lower Lassie's barriers enough that he could find a way to bring up the whole kissing thing in a way that could potentially lead to more kissing.

That seemed unlikely now that Lassiter was glaring at him thunderously, his hand clutched against the place where Shawn knew his stitches to be, though his only other sign of distress was the way his forehead creased in pain. Shawn felt guilty and irritated in equal measures, sorry that Lassiter was hurting and frustrated that things were not going at all to plan. How could he fix this? How could he show Lassie his interest without having the awkward, uncomfortable conversation that probably neither of them was capable of?

It came to him in a flash. Why talk when you could _do_? And there was nothing he wanted to do this morning more than Lassiter.

"I know something that will make you feel better," he said, wiping his suddenly sweaty hands against his jeans.

"The only thing that will make me feel better right now is for you to leave," Lassiter groused. "Which is what I've already told you to do. Why are you still here?"

Shawn sidled a little closer, taking in the way Lassiter was sitting, looking miserable and uncomfortable in the kitchen chair, his robe pulled primly over his knees, and he blinked because Lassie had _legs_ and _toes_ , and he found that he was suddenly very interested in exploring all of the other body parts Lassie usually hid away.

"If you're really determined to give up the pills," he said, "I think I might know something that would help with the pain."

Lassiter chewed his muffin thoughtfully, nodding. "Whiskey? That's not a bad idea, Spencer. There's a bottle in the pantry. Grab it for me before you go."

Shawn tsked disapprovingly. "Alcohol at this time of day? The idea is to make you more comfortable, not turn you into one of those cliché cops who has whiskey with his Wheaties."

"I seriously doubt that one drink would...what are you doing?"

Lassiter's eyes had gone wide with confusion and apprehension as Shawn dropped to his knees in front of him, reaching forward cautiously to run a hand up Lassie's calf, feeling the muscles tense under his touch.

"I told you," Shawn said, fighting to keep his voice steady, "I'm going to make you feel good."

"That's not exactly what you—" Lassiter stopped with a gasp as Shawn's hand continued its journey upward, pausing only to flick aside the hem of the robe.

"Use your words, Lassie," Shawn said. He was a little breathless himself, possibly as shocked by what he was doing as Lassiter was. "If you don't want this, tell me and we'll never speak of it again." He knew he was jumping ahead—they hadn't even kissed properly yet, he still wasn't sure what any of this meant or exactly what Lassiter wanted from him in the long run, or what he wanted from Lassie for that matter—but he had never let caution or logic stop him before, and he'd be damned if he let those things stop him now. There was no point in thinking beyond the way that Lassie's eyes had darkened with lust, or the flush of color along his cheeks, or the expression of damn near wonder crossing his face.

"Spencer, if this is some kind of joke, if you're just fucking with me..."

Shawn grinned, albeit nervously, his gaze darting from Lassiter's face down to his lap, where the tenting material of the robe was making his interest apparent.

"That depends on what you mean by fucking with you," Shawn said, and leaned forward to plant a path of soft kisses from Lassiter's knee up his thigh, nosing the robe out of the way as he went. He paused before going any further to check Lassiter's reaction again.

"I'm not hearing a 'no', or 'stop', or 'get your hands off me or I'll shoot you,'" he said, and Lassiter stared back at him with wild eyes.

"Spencer, what the HELL do you think you're doing?" he asked finally, his voice low and hoarse, and a thrill of lust chased with nervousness chased through Shawn.

"If you can't tell, I must not be doing it right," he joked. "Maybe this will clear things up." With one deft move he flicked the robe completely out of the way and wrapped his hand around Lassie's half-hard-and-getting-harder-by-the-second cock. Lassiter jerked in shock at the direct contact, and despite his nerves, Shawn smiled.

"I hereby apologize for any and all comments I've made about your guns being phallic replacements. Clearly you need no help in that department."

He looked up so that he could watch Lassiter's expression and rubbed his palm over the head, loving the way Lassie's eyelids fluttered at the sensation, the way his cheeks flushed even darker.

"Fuck," Lassiter hissed, as Shawn slid his hand down and then back up, learning the size and shape of his cock. "Spencer, what the _fuck_?"

His question gave way to a moan as Shawn leaned forward and delicately kissed the tip before taking the head in his mouth. Lassiter, fresh from his shower, smelled like soap, but, as he teased the slit, coaxing out salty, bitter, droplets of pre-come, he tasted like sex, and Shawn hummed with pleasure, realizing that he hadn't known until this moment how very much he had wanted to do this. At the vibration from the hum, Lassiter thrust into his mouth, and Shawn was glad that he already had a steadying hand around the base of his cock, to avoid being choked and bringing this to an abrupt end.

He glanced up again, wanting to see Lassiter watching him, knowing that it Shawn making him feel so good, only to find that Lassiter's eyes were closed, his hands clenched in tight fists like he was fighting to keep control.

Well. That wouldn't do at all. He pulled off, his mouth making a faint popping sound from the suction he had created, and Lassiter's eyes flew open, a combination of disappointment and protest on his face.

"No, Lassie, you have to keep your eyes open," Shawn said firmly. "You can't pretend that anyone else is doing this to you." For just a second he thought that Lassiter was going to object, balk at Shawn giving orders, but after a brief pause he simply nodded slowly, and if anything seemed to get even harder under Shawn's hand.

Not bothering to hide his smirk at this particular revelation, Shawn rewarded him by leaning forward and licking, his tongue soft and slick against the hardness of Lassiter's cock, and even though he had to have been expecting it, Lassiter still couldn't bite back a gasp of pleasure, his hands going finally to Shawn's head, threading into his hair, trying to increase the pressure, and now it was Shawn's turn to moan at the way he could feel Lassie's fingers digging into his scalp—not painfully hard, but hard enough that Shawn could tell how desperate he was for more, and knowing that was so hot that he had to reach down and rub at himself through his jeans, reminding Little Shawn that it wasn't his turn yet.

Instead of speeding up, Shawn slowed down, savoring Lassie like he was a particularly delicious mango-pineapple popsicle. He worked his hand down so that he could cup Lassiter's balls, bending his head to suck them into his mouth, and the fingers in his hair tightened further as Lassiter groaned with pleasure, then licked back up, where he nibbled kisses around the head of Lassie's cock, before licking him all over again, making him writhe helplessly with how it was _almost_ but _not quite_ what he wanted, until, finally, Lassiter had had enough teasing and pulled Shawn's head back by his hair to glare at him.

"Problem?" Shawn asked breathlessly, and whoa, Lassiter was a complete wreck, eyes practically black with lust, chest heaving, flushed and sweaty. He looked about three seconds away from throwing Shawn down and screwing him right there in the middle of the kitchen floor, and Shawn shuddered with pure _yes, please_ at the image that created in his mind.

"Stop messing around. If you're going to do it, then do it," Lassiter growled, and pushed him back down again. Shawn would have laughed, except his mouth was suddenly full of Lassiter's cock, and because Lassie had been patient for longer than Shawn had expected, he sucked hard, flicking his tongue against the ridge on the underside of his dick and sliding a finger against the sensitive skin behind his balls as he took Lassiter as deep into his mouth as he could before sliding back up, then repeating the action hard and fast. Lassiter was worked up enough by that point that it didn't take long after that, and Shawn concentrated on not choking when Lassie came, leaning against Lassie's knee and breathing raggedly when it was over, so painfully hard himself that it was difficult to think past how much he wanted Lassiter to be touching him, right now please. In fact, Lassie was touching him, petting his hair gently as they both tried to catch their breath, and it was nice, more than nice, if not exactly the kind of contact he was craving.

As much as he liked his current position, it was getting difficult to ignore the discomfort caused by the tile under his knees, and the fact that Lassiter hadn't said anything since groaning "Spencer" right before he came was starting to make Shawn jittery. Somewhat reluctantly he got up and dropped into the kitchen chair closest to Lassiter, watching with interest as Lassie pulled his robe closed while not meeting Shawn's eyes. They had apparently departed the good ship _Sexytimes, Ahoy!_ and landed on Awkward Island.

"See? I told you that I could make you feel better!" Shawn said brightly, because one of them was going to have to say something, and he had a feeling that duty was up to him. He tried not to wince over how loud his own voice sounded in the quiet room. Lassiter still didn't say anything, though he did finally look at Shawn, his gaze landing briefly on the conspicuous bulge at Shawn's groin before darting away again. Shawn could feel the odds of reciprocation slipping away.

Lassiter licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Shawn, never great with long silences, decided that was his cue to keep talking. "That blew your mind, right? I mean, that wasn't all I blew, but come on, Lass, when was the last time someone made you actually lose the ability to speak?" He rubbed his jaw, which, unsurprisingly, was sore, and barreled on. "I understand, you're probably trying to find exactly the right words to tell me how mega spectacular that was. It must be amazing to have me around to brighten up your gray, lonely day."

Instead of getting the rarely-sighted-but-always-treasured Lassie smile that he was hoping for, Lassiter was frowning, and the tiny ball of uneasiness in Shawn's gut that had started with Lassie's long silence grew.

Finally, he spoke. "Is that what that was? Did you do that because you think I'm lonely?" He nearly spat the word out, and Shawn blinked at him, astonished. "Because you feel sorry for me?"

"Sorry for you? No, why would I..." he trailed off uncertainly, dumbfounded by Lassiter's accusation, feeling like an actor who had forgotten his next line.

Lassiter's certainty seemed to be increasing, along with his anger. "That's right, isn't it?" he asked, getting to his feet, "You think that because I took a bullet for you and kissed you that you owe me some kind of pity blowjob?"

"I knew it!" Shawn said, jumping to his feet as well, "I knew you remembered kissing me! Yessss!" His face fell though as he absorbed the rest of what Lassiter had said. "But...wait, no, Lassie, that's not what happened."

It was too late, though; Lassiter was filled with righteous conviction, and Shawn's protestations fell on deaf ears. "Well you don't," he continued furiously. "You don't owe me shit, and I never expected anything from you. What, you think I should be grateful now, is that it Spencer? Or maybe you think that I'm going to roll over and give in to you whenever we're working on a case from now on?"

Lassiter rolling over and giving in didn't sound so bad to Shawn, but he had a feeling that the kind of rolling over he had in mind was not what was Lassie was thinking about, which was a shame, and also somewhat disheartening given the fact that Shawn thought he had just made his feelings for Lassiter crystal clear. And to be honest, he was insulted that Lassie thought that he would use sexual wiles in order to get his way on cases. He already got his way on cases, for heaven's sake! He didn't need blow jobs for that, not when he already had fake psychic talent.

"Lassie, I think we need to take like, a giant step back here. I don't—"

"I don't care what you think," Lassiter snapped, but now he sounded more disappointed than angry. "Just...get out, Spencer. And don't come back."

Shawn opened his mouth to argue, to defend himself, to stop what had started as a day full of possibility from being completely destroyed, but Lassiter's face was set in an implacable expression of resolve, and he wasn't even looking at Shawn anymore, staring instead fiercely at the top of the kitchen table, and just like that, Shawn's certainty crumbled. Lassiter didn't want this, didn't want _him_ , and there was no point in drawing this out any further. He was not about to play Emily Valentine to Lassie's Brandon Walsh (not that Lassie could ever be Brandon; he didn't have the right hair for it).

Without another word, Shawn gave Lassiter what he had asked for and left.


	3. Chapter 3

"What's wrong with you?" Gus demanded. "You've been sulking for weeks."

Shawn looked up from the laptop where he was playing Solitaire—and definitely not sulking—to glare at Gus, whose expression suggested that he was ready for whatever argument Shawn was going to throw at him. He briefly considered saying "I'm pissed because I gave Lassie a world-class, four-star BJ and now he hates me," but ultimately decided that as much fun as it would be to watch Gus freak out, it wouldn't be worth the hassle of trying to explain how he had ended up on his knees for Lassiter. And besides, it wasn't as if he wanted to rehash the memory of it anyway; the entire incident was humiliating and better forgotten. Not that Shawn ever really forgot anything.

"Sulking? What does that even mean? Last week we closed three cases. The week before that, two. Are you confused about what the word 'sulk' means, Gus? Do you think it means 'be a super awesome detective who solves all the cases before anyone else does'?" He paused thoughtfully, surveying the cards on the screen in front of him and carefully not making eye contact with Gus. "Is that what it means? Was my dad really paying me a compliment all of those times he accused me of sulking?"

Gus frowned at him. "No Shawn, that's not what it means. And we only solved two cases last week, not three."

"No, I'm sure it was three. Don't you remember the case of the missing earbuds?"

"Those were my earbuds, Shawn. And there was no mystery—you took them."

"Mmm, still, I solved the case. It counts."

"It only counts if we get paid for it, and if you didn't commit the crime in the first place," Gus argued, "which brings me back to my main point: What's going on with you? I know something's been bothering you for a couple of weeks now, but I figured you would talk about it when you were ready, and anyway, it seemed to make you focus on work, which was great because the rent was due. But now the rent's paid, you're still mopey, and you haven't wanted to go down to the station all week, which is weird because up until a few days ago it was like you had practically moved in down there."

Shawn shrugged. "Right. I've spent too much time there lately. The station and I need some space. We were seeing too much of each other, and I still want to see other places. I can't be tied down, man."

"Yeah, but Lassiter is back this week. I thought you would…" Gus stopped, his eyes narrowing with suspicion, and Shawn silently cursed Gus's perception. "That's it, isn't it? Lassie's back this week, and you're avoiding him. You're embarrassed!"

Okay, that was a little too perceptive, Shawn thought, squinting at Gus in confusion. "Is Lassie back this week?" he asked, feigning nonchalance. "I thought he was still off on his tour of sites used in Gwyneth Paltrow movies."

"Yes, Shawn," Gus said patiently, "he is back this week, from the medical leave he took after he was shot saving your dumb ass."

"Harsh," Shawn muttered, "and by the way, I saved his ass right back," but Gus ignored him.

"That's what's bothering you, isn't it? Well, you need to just get over it, Shawn. We can't avoid working with Lassiter, so you're going to have to suck it up and admit that you owe him one and move on."

"Oh, I've already done plenty of sucking," Shawn said, making Gus's forehead wrinkle in confusion.

"What?"

Shawn waved his hand dismissively and stood up, shutting his laptop and taking a deep breath, because Gus was right. "Gus, you're right," he said decisively. "I have to man up and face Lassie sometime." But even saying the words made his temporary burst of courage wither away, as an image of Lassiter's face the last time he had seen him floated through his mind: brows drawn and mouth set in a thin line of fury, angry and miserable and embarrassed. Shawn wasn't sure what it was that Lassie had to be embarrassed about, since Shawn was the one who had made an idiot of himself, but that was beside the point, the point being that Lassie didn't want to see Shawn, and for once, Shawn didn't much want to see Lassie either.

He dropped back down into his chair, confusing Gus who was already standing at the door, keys in hand. "Maybe tomorrow," Shawn said. "The spirits are telling me that today is a bad day to go down to the station. They're out of the regular coffee, and you know how Chief Vick gets if all she has is decaf."

"Uh, Shawn, you do remember that I know that you're not really psychic, right?" Uh oh; Gus was irritated now, his arms crossed as he glared at Shawn from the doorway.

"Okay, maybe the spirits didn't tell me anything since they don't exist, but I'm dead serious about the coffee, Gus. Buzz's Facebook status today is 'terrified'. I know you haven't forgotten what happened the last time? She made Dobson cry!"

Gus sighed noisily. "I can tell that you're deflecting, but I'm going to let you get away with it for now because I'm your friend. But you can't avoid Lassiter forever."

As usual, Gus was right. The only way to completely avoid Lassie would be to pack up his motorcycle and hit the road—a thought that had definitely crossed Shawn's mind during a few of his darker moments over the past couple of weeks. But he didn't want to leave Psych or Gus, and anyway, it would feel too much like running scared, when he wasn't scared at all, just embarrassed and pissed off.

Rejection did not usually make him mad. Well, to be honest, he didn't get rejected that often these days, but even when he had been a dorky teenager incapable of getting to third base with another human being, it didn't piss him off. But Lassiter making baseless accusations about his motives and then kicking him out after Shawn had thrown himself at him, wearing his heart on his sleeve more openly than he ever had for anyone else? Yeah. Along with the humiliation was a surprising-to-Shawn amount of anger. Maybe that would help him get past the awkwardness the next time he saw Lassie.

True to his word, Gus didn't nag Shawn about going to the station again over the next couple of days, but near the end of the week, Chief Vick called the office personally and asked them to come down and psychically read two suspects in a burglary to see if he could determine which was the guilty party, and Shawn knew his reprieve was up.

On the drive to the station, he purposely started an argument with Gus to distract himself from thinking about seeing Lassiter again and kept it going as they walked into the station together. "Urkel WAS that show, Gus. Without him, it would have been cancelled after the first season."

"The name of the show was _Family Matters_ , Shawn! It was about the Winslow _family_. Yes, Urkel was a breakout character, but the show was a humorous look at the trials and tribulations of Carl and Harriette and their kids, and it would have been successful even without Urkel."

"Don't play, Gus. You're just trying to hide the fact that Urkel was your hero."

"He was not!" Gus snapped, nearly bumping into Buzz, who gave them a distracted wave as he hurried past.

"Please," Shawn scoffed, his palms starting to sweat as they came into sight of Lassiter and Juliet's desks, "he was the nerdy black kid who could never get the girl he wanted. It was like you were twins."

"I got plenty of girls, Shawn. More than you did in high school," he said pointedly, and Shawn gasped in outrage, which Gus ignored because he was on a roll. "Plus, Urkel did have his smooth alter ego who could get alllll the ladies. Hellooo." That was directed at a pretty young patrol officer walking past them, who edged away from him with her hand on her holster and a suspicious look.

"Looks like you could use a smooth alter ego of your own," Shawn laughed, but his voice trailed off as the Chief's door opened and Lassiter and Juliet came out. Lassie was back to his spit-shined, straight-laced (well, not entirely straight, Shawn knew now), and polished self, tie neatly knotted, hair shellacked into place, no trace of stubble on his face. Shawn had thought that he had prepared himself for seeing Lassie again, but the sight of him sent a stab of longing through his gut. He wanted to unknot that tie, muss up that hair, and make Lassiter look at him again the way he had right before that ill-fated kiss.

He knew the instant that Lassiter saw him, because his shoulders tensed up and his mouth tightened, and he bent his head to say something to Juliet before going back to his desk, carefully avoiding looking in Shawn's direction again.

Well. There was no way that Shawn was going to allow THAT to continue. He turned away from the Chief's office, where he had been heading, and started towards Lassie, determined to, if nothing else, force Lassiter to acknowledge him. He considered hissing "I won't be _ignored_ , Lassie," like he was Glenn Close in _Fatal Attraction_ , but ultimately decided that he didn't want to be associated with someone who would boil a bunny.

"Where are you going?" Gus demanded. "The Chief's expecting us…oh." He finished flatly as he realized which desk Shawn was making a beeline for. "I thought you were avoiding him."

"I am. But I'm not going to let him avoid me."

"What?" Gus asked, understandably baffled, but Shawn was utterly focused on his prey. He stalked right up to Lassiter's desk, planting his hands on the flat surface and leaning forward so that he was right in Lassiter's face. "Hi, Lassie!" he said loudly. "Welcome back!"

Lassiter rolled back a few inches in his desk chair to get some space, regarding Shawn warily. "Spencer. Guster."

Shawn straightened up, holding onto his casual demeanor as tightly as he could, even though his stomach was in knots. "How was your vacation, Lassafrass? Did you do anything—or anyone—fun?"

Lassiter looked horrified, and something in Shawn deflated a bit at the realization that he was actually scared that Shawn would out him in the middle of the station. He was saved from having to react to that by Gus.

"We've been over this before, Shawn: Lassie wasn't on vacation, he was on medical leave." Gus didn't add "Because of you," and maybe he didn't even think it, but Shawn heard it anyway.

The wariness that Lassiter had been exhibiting earlier had transformed into hostility, which sadly didn't surprise Shawn at all; of course Lassie would put all of his walls up if he felt even mildly threatened.

"I should have known that you two numbnuts were going to show up today," he griped, turning back to his paperwork. "This week had been going too smoothly. Something had to happen to ruin it."

"Hey, why am I a 'numbnuts'?" Gus protested. "I haven't done anything!"

"Yeah," Shawn said, "and I'll have you know that my nuts are anything but…"

Lassiter cut him off before he could complete the thought. "Sorry Guster, your choice of companions automatically consigns you to the numbnuts category. Now, why don't the two of you get the hell away from my desk and go bother someone else?"

Shawn made a big show of looking around the station at the other officers, and the civilians, and the criminals, and the lawyers, before turning back to Lassiter. "Everyone else is working, Lassie. Pounding the mean streets, catching the bad guys. You're the only here not doing anything."

Lassiter's face turned red, the jab hitting exactly like Shawn knew that it would. "I'm on desk duty for two weeks," he snapped. "That doesn't mean that I'm not working."

Shawn shrugged. "If you say so. Hey, it looks like Dobson and Vasquez just made a big arrest," he said, nodding to the two detectives who had just entered the station with a pair of handcuffed men. "Didn't they take on some of your caseload? I wonder if that was one of yours. Must be kind of annoying to watch them solve your cases while you're sitting here doing nothing. Of course, you're used to watching me solve your cases, so maybe this isn't so different."

If Lassiter had been a cartoon, he would have had steam shooting from his ears; Shawn amused himself with imagining what that would look like, concentrating on the fury in Lassiter's face while willfully ignoring the hurt in his eyes. Lassie could take a few jibes, just like Shawn could take having his heart stomped on.

"Spencer, if you don't get the hell away from my desk right now I'm going to have you arrested for interfering with police work," Lassiter snarled.

Shawn forced a laugh. "Wouldn't you have to be working for that to happen?"

"I AM working, you jackass. Now, go away."

"Huh. I seem to remember someone saying that sitting behind a desk wasn't real police work. Do you remember who it was who said that, Gus?"

"Uh, no," Gus said nervously, knowing full well that it was Lassiter himself who had made that decree on a day when he had been sick of paperwork and bitching about it to everyone in earshot. Lassiter clearly remembered as well, judging from how he was clenching the pen in his hand so tight that it seemed in danger of snapping. "Shawn, we probably shouldn't keep Chief Vick waiting any longer."

"Hmmm," Shawn said, tapping a finger against his lips thoughtfully, "Who was it who said that? I feel like it's right on the tip of my brain."

"Tip of your tongue," Gus corrected.

Shawn stuck his tongue out experimentally. "Thah doethn't make any thenth, Guth. There'th nothing on the thip of my thongue. Do ou thee anything Lathie?"

Lassiter gave him a disgusted look. "Put your tongue back in your mouth, Spencer, and go away."

"Ah, if only you'd said that sooner the last time we met," Shawn said glibly, and involuntarily took a step back when Lassiter stood up so suddenly and with such force that his chair tipped over, drawing the attention of nearly everyone in the station.

"Get. The hell. Away from me," Lassiter snarled. "I don't know what you're doing here, but I want you out of my station. Out of my goddamned _life_."

Satisfaction rolled through Shawn at how easily he could push Lassie's buttons, chased by disappointment; they were never going to move past what had happened. Lassiter was too guarded, too certain that Shawn was playing with him, and it would take a miracle to make him lower that guard enough that Shawn could convince him that he was actually interested in pursuing something potentially serious.

 _You are playing with him,_ a tiny voice in the back of his mind insisted, but he squelched that thought. Shawn had made it obvious that he liked Lassie and had gotten thrown out of Lassie's house for his trouble, so he deserved a little payback. Besides, it wasn't like he was actually going to make what had happened between them public; if Lassiter really believed that he would, then it served him right to be messed with a little.

"Sorry, Lass," he said with mock sincerity, "but I can't leave. I was invited here today."

"Is that right? Tell me Spencer, what half-wit moron would want you around?"

"I believe that half-wit moron would be me," came a dry voice from nearby, and Shawn and Lassiter turned at the same time to see Chief Vick standing a few feet away, radiating disapproval. "What seems to be the problem here gentlemen?"

Lassiter glared furiously at Shawn, but managed to grit out through his teeth, "No problem, Chief."

She looked skeptical. "Really? Because I could have sworn, Detective, that I heard you questioning my decision on who to bring in to consult on a case."

Looking like he wished the earth would open up and swallow him whole, Lassiter opened his mouth to issue a denial, or possibly an apology, but before he could Chief Vick had changed her focus to Shawn, who gulped under her scrutiny.

"And I'm equally certain, Mr. Spencer, that I did not suggest that you come down to the station to waste Detective Lassiter's time or my own by making me wait while you stopped to harass him."

It was amazing how she could make him feel about three inches tall. He tried to muster up his usual charm, aiming a winning smile at her. "Sorry, Chief. I just wanted to do a quick cleansing of the aura around Lass…Detective Lassiter's desk now that he's back at work. I'm ready to check out your suspects now, though. Lead the way!"

"That won't be necessary," Vick said coolly. "While you were here 'cleansing' Detective Lassiter, Detective O'Hara was down in interrogation getting a signed confession from the burglar. You can leave now."

Shawn's smile fell away. "But…Chief…maybe there's something else. The spirits are telling me…"

"No, Mr. Spencer, not today. I thought that you two were getting along better now, especially after what happened with you, Detective, but I can see now that I was wrong. I don't know what's going on between you, but I expect you to work out your differences. I won't have this kind of disruption in my station. Do you both understand?"

"Yes ma'am," they both muttered.

"Mr. Guster," Chief Vick said, "come out from behind that pillar and take your cohort home. Detective Lassiter, I believe you had some reports to type." Turning to address the station at large, where nearly everyone was watching them while pretending to work, she snapped, "Show's over. Everyone back to work."

Gus, who had disappeared when Lassiter had started yelling, slunk out from behind the post he had been hiding behind to grab Shawn by the elbow and drag him out of the station, not that Shawn really needed to be dragged at that point.

Neither of them spoke until they were in the Blueberry, where Shawn was just starting to settle into a good long sulk—if Gus thought that he'd been sulking before, he hadn't seen anything yet—when Gus ruined the silence by punching Shawn hard in the upper arm.

"Aaaccckkk!" Shawn shouted in protest, rubbing at the offended spot and glaring at Gus. "Not fair, Gus! You know I bruise like an overripe banana."

"What is wrong with you?" Gus demanded. "You ruined our chance to get paid today, and worse than that, now the Chief's mad at us! Who knows when she'll call us again? What the hell made you go and get all up in Lassiter's face like that?"

"Hey, Lassiter got in my face too! I was just joking around, he's the one that lost it and made a scene."

Gus was silent as he started the car and pulled out into traffic, while Shawn pulled on his sunglasses and stared out the window gloomily. Finally, Gus said, "You were being kind of a jerk, making fun of him for being stuck behind a desk because he got shot. For once, I can't really blame Lassie for being pissed. So, now that it's affected our work, are you finally going to tell me what's going on between you two?"

"What makes you think—" Shawn started to say, but one look at the resolve on Gus's face told him that his deflection wasn't going to work. He sighed. "Okay, I'll tell you, but you have to promise not to get mad."

"I'm not going to make that promise, Shawn. Just you saying that guarantees that I'm going to get mad! What did you do?"

"Why does everyone always assume that everything is my fault? I'll have you know that Lassie started it. Ooooh, there's a Red Robin up ahead. We should stop there and have the towering onion rings and a milkshake."

"What do you mean, Lassiter started it? Started what?" Gus asked suspiciously.

"Trust me, buddy, you're going to need a good, stiff milkshake if you really want to hear what happened."

"You did WHAT?" Gus yelped a half hour later. Shawn noted sadly that the milkshake had done nothing to cushion the blow. "Shawn! Are you seriously telling me that you…you _performed fellatio_ on Lassiter?"

Shawn winced at the volume; maybe Gus was experiencing some kind of strawberry shake related sugar rush after all. "Keep your voice down! And yes, I did, but don't make it sound dirty."

Gus gave him a disbelieving look. "It's pretty damn dirty, Shawn. What were you thinking?"

Running his hand across his face in frustration, Shawn shrugged. "I don't know, man. I guess I was thinking that I like him. And that he kissed me, so he must like me too. It seemed like a good way to bypass all the talky bullshit and show him that I was interested. And besides, he was feeling crappy. I wanted to do something nice for him."

"And you couldn't just buy him a box of candy and a 'get well soon' card? In your brain, doing something nice for him meant fellatio?"

"Will you stop saying that word?" Shawn hissed, as he noticed the waitress cleaning a nearby table who was trying to hide her smirk.

"I don't believe you, Shawn. It's taken us years to get Lassiter to even grudgingly accept us as detectives, and you undo all of that in five minutes?"

"I'll have you know, I spent longer than five minutes on him."

Gus cringed, throwing up a hand to stop Shawn before he could elaborate. "I do not want to know that. You know what I do want to know? How you could possibly have imagined that Lassiter could have been anything other than completely freaked out by you giving him surprise fellatio."

"I thought we agreed that you weren't going to use that word anymore," Shawn said with a scowl, "and hello, how could surprise… _that_ be anything other than awesome? Are you telling me you would kick out someone you had the hots for who did that for you?"

"I'm not Lassiter, thank God," Gus pointed out, "but you know what, Shawn? I might kick someone out if I had feelings for them and I thought they were just messing with me."

"I wasn't messing with him!" Shawn protested, frustrated that not even Gus took him seriously about this. "I like him. I maybe more than like him, except right now he's being kind of an asshole."

Gus made a face. "If you hadn't noticed before that Lassiter can be an asshole sometimes then I question your observation skills. But in this particular case, I can't blame him."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Think about it, Shawn. Put yourself in his shoes."

"I don't think they would fit me."

Gus sighed in exasperation. "See, you can't even have a real conversation about this without making jokes. Lassiter's not like you, Shawn. He can't leap from A to Q without making any stops in between. Look at what happened from his point of view: He got shot, protecting you. He kissed you. The next bit, the part where you saved his life, he doesn't remember, he has to rely on other people to tell him about. He knows you got him out of there, but he doesn't know what I know, which is that you were freaking out and insisted on riding in the ambulance with him even though Chief Vick wanted you to stay on the scene, or that they had to pull you away from him at the hospital so they could take him into surgery."

"How do you know any of that?" Shawn demanded. "You weren't even there!"

"You're not the only detective at this table, you know," Gus said smugly. "Buzz told me about what happened on the scene, and Juliet told me what happened at the hospital."

"That's not being a detective, that's just being gossipy," Shawn said. "Anyway, I barely remember doing any of that stuff. I was probably in shock."

"You were definitely in shock," Gus corrected, "but that doesn't change the fact that you were reacting like Lassiter was someone you cared about as more than just a co-worker."

Shawn looked down at the remains of his Banzai Burger, which he had barely eaten half of, proof enough of the fact that he was in some sort of emotional turmoil. Talking with Gus about who he was dating or who he was interested in was something he had done for his entire life, so he wasn't sure why this conversation felt so much like Gus was throwing salt into an open wound. To mask his discomfort, he sighed noisily. "Don't be Nicholas Cage's hair in _Con Air_. Or Nicholas Cage's hair in _Adaptation_. Or Nicholas Cage's hair in _Peggy Sue Got Married_. Or…just don't be Nicholas Cage's hair, Gus. And anyway, I already admitted that I like him. The problem is that I was mistaken about how much he liked me."

"Do you even hear yourself? You sound like you're in third grade. 'Oooh, I wonder if Lassie liiiiikes me?'" Gus mimicked in a high-pitched voice. "The point I was trying to make, Shawn, is that Lassiter doesn't realize how much you like him. He probably thought he was dying when he kissed you, and then after he woke up he acted like it had never happened. Those are not the actions of a man who is confident that his feelings are reciprocated."

"I get that!" Shawn said in frustration. "That's why I tried to make my feelings clear with a little sexual healing."

"Yeah, but you have to look at it the way Lassiter would. He sees you as someone who doesn't take anything seriously, and then you do this thing without even talking to him at all about your feelings. You just jump into it, because you know how you feel, and you think you know how he feels, but he can't read your mind."

"Damn right," Shawn muttered, "I'm the psychic around here."

Gus rolled his eyes. "Okay, _psychic_ , you should know then that Lassie is insecure, and that he had his heart broken by his ex-wife, and that he's always prepared for the worst. And then you waltz in and make jokes and without any explanation perform fella—"

" _Gus_!"

"—tio," Gus continued, undaunted. "What's he supposed to think? That you're serious about him, or that you're treating him the way he sees you treat everything else in your life: like a joke."

Okay, that hurt, and was uncalled for. "I don't treat everything like a joke," Shawn protested. "And Lassie should give me the benefit of the doubt, because I did save his life, after all, and even before that, we've always been…" he hesitated briefly. "Friends? Friendly rivals? More than acquaintances, anyway. People who work together who argue a lot but have always had a barely hidden sexual attraction for each other? Whatever it is that we are, maybe he should trust me a little more."

"Hey, I don't disagree, but that's what you get for going after a guy who would win the Insecurity Olympics," Gus said. "And then today you were making fun of him for being on desk duty, when you know he hates that he can't be out in the field. If you really want this to happen—and trust me when I say that I think you've lost your damn mind—then you're going to have to actually talk to him and tell him what you want."

Shawn knew that this was completely reasonable advice, but he still wasn't sure about it. Maybe he had already blown his chance. (Blown. Heh.) However, he had never been one to back down from a challenge, and if he didn't at least try to do what Gus suggested, he would always wonder if he could have changed things. Besides, there was also the very pertinent fact that he and Lassie were going to have to move past this so they could work together again.

"When did you get so smart about relationship stuff?" he asked Gus, who preened at the compliment.

"You can't watch every episode of _Family Matters_ without learning a little something about relationships," Gus said sagely.


	4. Chapter 4

Lassiter stayed at work until Chief Vick ordered him to go home. It was absurd, really; being on desk duty ought to have meant that he could work as many hours as he wanted, but she insisted that he was still recovering, also mentioning something about how the rest of the officers could use a break from his bad mood.

As much as he hated typing reports and filing and sitting on his ass all day, it at least made him feel like he was doing _something_ , and the steady flow of work kept him from dwelling on his personal life too much. Of course, with Spencer showing up at the station as he had that day, it was impossible to forget the things that he was trying to forget. He supposed he should be grateful; before Spencer's ill-fated visit to the station, Lassiter had been contemplating the idea of calling him up and apologizing.

He knew he had overreacted by kicking Shawn out That Day (he did not allow himself to think about what had happened That Day that led to him kicking Shawn out. Thoughts like that only ended with wasted time and self-recriminations and an empty feeling of loss after he inevitably jerked off to the memory.) It proved to be just as impossible to forget the expression of hurt and confusion Shawn had worn as he left That Day as it was to forget what had come before. Lassiter felt guilty. He knew he should apologize.

Clearly, he realized now, he had taken that memory and nursed it into some kind of delusion. He had even dared to hope that if he apologized, there might even be the opportunity for some kind of fresh start with Shawn. Luckily for him, before he could do something boneheaded, Spencer had come into the station and made it clear that he only saw Lassiter as a person to be mocked, a perpetual joke.

Now Lassiter was stuck trying to decide if he should disclose to Chief Vick that he and Spencer had shared an inappropriate interaction. He burned with humiliation at the prospect of telling her, but after Spencer's little show down at the station that day, it seemed like it might be safer to get ahead of the story and tell her himself before Spencer got the chance to do so in a way that would cause maximum embarrassment for Lassiter and maximum amusement for Shawn.

He was such an idiot. How had he allowed his dumb lust for Spencer to grow into actual feelings? Now he was paying the price for his weakness.

He had been home long enough to take off his jacket and tie and down one glass of whiskey with a second in his hand when his doorbell rang. Looking out the peephole, he saw Spencer fidgeting on his doorstep.

"I know you're on the other side of the door, Lassie. Let me in!"

"Like. Hell." Lassiter snapped.

"We have to talk," Shawn said, and he sounded serious enough that Lassiter found himself hesitating, reaching for the doorknob, before he yanked his hand away hastily and took a step back.

"We don't have anything to talk about," he said. "Now get the hell off my doorstep before I arrest you for trespassing."

"You're always threatening to have me arrested," Shawn said, and Lassiter cringed at the volume of his voice; the neighbors were going to start bitching if they continued to yell at each other through the door. "Is it because you harbor a secret fantasy of me in cuffs, or is it because you think I look good in prison orange? If that's the case, I can't agree Lassie. It's all wrong for my complexion."

Lassiter didn't reply, wondering if something as simple as the silent treatment might get Spencer to give up and leave. He resisted the urge to look through the peephole again. Maybe if he pretended that Spencer wasn't there…

"Lassie, you know we have to talk. If you don't let me in, I'm going to resort to singing showtunes on your doorstep. I don't actually know any showtunes, so I'll just have to make something up."

Lassiter pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. What had he ever done to deserve being saddled with Shawn Spencer? "Go away!" he called back uselessly.

"Nope! Chief Vick told us to work out our problems and I'm here to do just that. Isn't there a Broadway show about cats? How does that song go?" There was a brief pause, and then the singing started. "Cats! Furry, purry, beautiful cats! Fluffy, smushy, sometimes flea-bitten cats!"

The neighbors were definitely going to complain. Lassiter pulled the door open with a scowl. "That's not how any song in that show goes."

Shawn stopped singing, his eyes glinting with amusement. "You know the songs from _Cats_? I can't believe I thought you were straight for so long."

"My little sister loved that damn soundtrack when she was a kid," Lassiter said, glaring as Shawn pushed past him, dropping into the same chair he'd sat in the night he'd brought over soup and cheesecake. "Spencer, I didn't invite you to stay. Say whatever you came here to say and get the hell out."

Shawn gestured between the two of them. "Gus told me that we should have a conversation, which implies that both of us will speak. Come on Lassie, take a load off. Enjoy your adult beverage. Relax."

"Don't tell me what to do," Lassiter snarled, already regretting allowing Shawn back into his home. It wasn't fair that he could just waltz in and make himself comfortable, like just hours before he hadn't been making a scene down at the station with his insinuations. Lassiter was struck with the desire to do something he hadn't done in a long time—grab Spencer by his shirt and shove him around, push him into a wall and make him feel as threatened as Lassiter had behind his desk that afternoon. When he realized that his fingers were actually flexing into fists at the thought, at how good it would feel to have his hands on Shawn Spencer, he reached for his whiskey and took a big gulp. It was only then that he realized what Shawn had said.

"You talked to Guster about this?" he demanded, then shook his head. "Of course you did. You probably talked to O'Hara and McNab and Henry and your fucking mailman about it too. I don't know why I would think otherwise."

"I talked to Gus about it because I talk to Gus about everything," Shawn said evenly. "I haven't said anything to anyone else, especially my mailman. I know for a fact that he's stealing my neighbor's _Soap Opera Digest_ magazines, so I don't trust him with anything. But Lassie, you can trust me."

He sounded sincere, and yet… "You were practically broadcasting it to the entire station today. And you ask me to trust you?"

"Gus said I was wearing my jerk pants today," Shawn said quietly, "and he's right. I'm sorry, Lassie."

Lassiter blinked at him, surprised. He had not actually expected an apology, much less one so easily and honestly given. He struggled to hang on to his anger though, because he worried that it was the only thing that would get him through this conversation without him giving in to whatever Shawn wanted. It was unnerving having him here in his personal space again, and he set his whiskey down because he needed to keep a clear head.

"Gus also said that you were kind of an asshole too, so feel free to apologize to me," Shawn said, destroying whatever goodwill he had started to build.

"Me? You were the one who waltzed into the station and got right in my face making suggestive remarks and being an obnoxious little twerp!"

"And you're the one who made such a big deal out of it that everyone in the station, including Vick, noticed," Shawn argued back.

"Which would never have happened if you hadn't started it!" Lassiter insisted hotly.

Shawn slouched back into his chair, crossing his arms and frowning at Lassiter. "But you're the one who actually started it. Why did you kiss me in the first place?"

Lassiter looked down at the glass in his hand with a sigh, because that was the one question he really didn't want to answer. The truth would mean making himself vulnerable to Shawn, and a lie would mean that he was only capable of being honest about what he wanted when he thought that he was about to die and wouldn't have to face the consequences of his desires. He didn't want to be that kind of man, always afraid, always hiding. So he took a deep breath, and told the truth.

"I kissed you because I wanted to."

"Oh," Shawn said softly. He sounded like all of the wind had just been knocked out of him. Very carefully, as if he thought that Lassiter might bolt if he made any sudden movements, he got up and moved to sit on the couch beside him, keeping enough space between them that they weren't touching.

"Okay," Shawn said, "that's good. That's, you know, a good reason to do things. Like kiss someone. So, uh, was it just some 'I'd like to kiss one more person in case I die, I don't care who it is' impulse, or was it, um, about me?"

Lassiter sighed again, already starting to regret that he'd given so much away. "Spencer, do we really have to do this? Why can't we just forget any of it ever happened?"

"Because I don't want to forget," Shawn said stubbornly, "and I think I deserve an explanation."

"Maybe I don't care what you think," Lassiter shot back.

"I know you care what Chief Vick thinks," Shawn said, "and she told us to work out our problems. I'm not going to consider them worked until you're honest with me."

Lassiter laughed at that. "I AM being honest with you. How much more honest do you think I can be? And, wait, who the hell are you to be mad because you think I'm not being honest with you? Jesus, Spencer, for all your faults I never thought of you as a hypocrite before."

Shawn gave him a considering look, and then, before Lassiter could really register what was happening, he suddenly vaulted into his lap, a leg on either side of him and a hand bracing against the back of the couch, near Lassiter's head.

Shocked, Lassiter pushed at Shawn's shoulder, though admittedly not as hard as he probably should. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Get off of me!"

Shawn didn't budge. He was sitting up on his knees so that he wasn't actually pressed against Lassiter, but it was still way too close, way too intimate. Lassiter knew that he should stand up, dump Spencer on the floor, put an end to this immediately.

But he didn't want to.

Shawn's face was set in an expression of resolve; he looked, at best, frustrated, and at worst, maybe even angry.

"I'll give you some honesty, if that's what you really want Lassie, but only if I get some back. Squid no go."

Lassiter's forehead furrowed in confusion as he thought this through. "What the...wait, do you mean 'quid pro quo'?"

"I've heard it both ways. But let's not change the subject: You wanted some truth? I'm mad at you, Lassie. I did something very, very nice for you the last time I was here, and you repaid me by saying mean, untrue things and kicking me out. I think you owe me an apology."

Lassiter scowled at him, his hands hovering in mid-air, forcing himself not to touch Shawn again. "I owe you the truth, I owe you an apology...is there anything you think I don't owe you, Spencer?"

Shawn shrugged. "Gus is the one who owes me twelve Twix bars, so you're off the hook for that."

Lassiter wasn't even listening. "And what do you mean, I said untrue things? I didn't say anything that wasn't true. I know it was just a joke to you."

"You're an idiot," Shawn said fiercely, poking Lassiter in the chest with his forefinger. "I throw myself at you in pretty much the most obvious way possible, and you think it's a joke? That it didn't mean anything to me? That I just go around giving blow jobs to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that looks my way." He paused, looking thoughtful. "That is to say, when I give a blow job, there is always a dick involved, but I just don't go giving them out to every dick. For one thing, Gus would freak—"

"Shut up for a minute," Lassiter ordered, and, miraculously, Shawn did as asked. Lassiter studied him carefully, looking for any sign of deception, or any hint that he was being laughed at, but Shawn's gaze was steady and earnest, and Lassiter felt a flutter of hope in his gut, the kind he usually crushed. "So, what are you saying Spencer? Are you...are you serious about this?"

"Well, _yeah_. How slutty do you think I am? I'm a people pleaser, yes, but that doesn't mean that I please all of the people all of the time. You can ask anybody down at the station, I've never had sex in any of their kitchens before. I mean, except for Gus's, but that wasn't with Gus, and you probably shouldn't tell him that I said that, he doesn't know and it was more than a year ago anyway, so disinfecting the table now would be pointless, but—"

He stopped talking abruptly as Lassiter reached up and put his hand against his face. "Spencer," he said gently, and Shawn blinked, his eyes wide and stunned.

"I wanted it to be the start of something between us," Shawn finally confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry I fucked it up."He cleared his throat, a warm glow of courage rising in him as Lassiter's eyes lit up at his words. "Okay Lassie, I told you the truth about something. Your turn. Or if you don't want to tell a truth, maybe you can do a dare."

Lassiter's head was reeling with the enormity of Shawn's words, so much so that it was almost too much to take it all in, especially with the heat and weight of Shawn still so close, his hand still against Shawn's face. He opened his mouth to speak, but he had no idea what the right words would be. So he opted for the dare instead, sliding his hand into Shawn's hair and pulling him down for a kiss.

Lassiter had always imagined that kissing Shawn—really kissing him, not near-death-scenario kissing him—would be like so many of their past encounters: aggressive, combative, competitive. He hadn't imagined this, Shawn's hands lightly touching his face, his shoulders, his chest, the sweet pressure of mouth against mouth, the way Shawn squirmed closer when Lassiter dared to lick into his mouth. When Lassiter finally broke the kiss, he pulled back to find Shawn watching him with dazed, lust-darkened eyes, his fists gripping the lapels of Lassiter's shirt tightly.

"Does that answer your question?" Lassiter asked, his voice low and hoarse.

"Did I ask a question?" Shawn wondered.

"I don't remember," Lassiter admitted, "I—"

Shawn kissed him again, pressing against him now so that Lassiter could feel how hard he was, and it occurred to him that there was one more thing he owed Shawn. He slipped his hands under the hem of Shawn's shirt, savoring the feeling of warm, firm skin and Shawn moaned softly into his mouth, his own hand tugging at the buttons of Lassiter's shirt. Before he had unbuttoned more than three buttons though, he drew back to look at Lassiter.

"We're on the same page here, right? We can slow down if you want to. I don't want you to think that I'm only after you for your body."

His tone was teasing, but Lassiter could sense the real anxiety behind the words, and he couldn't really blame Shawn for being wary, since the last time he had gotten this close it had ended so badly. In response, he reached for the waistband of Shawn's jeans, popping the button and toying with the zipper.

"I don't know, Spencer, is this the page you're on?"

Shawn's eyes were comically wide. "Chapter and verse," he assured Lassiter, reaching again for the buttons of his shirt with shaking hands. "You need to wear simpler clothes," he grumbled.

"Buttons are too complicated for you now?" Lassiter asked, as his heart thud thud thudded at the way Shawn's eyes were raking over the skin being exposed as he pushed the white dress shirt open. Not fair, he decided, and yanked Shawn's own shirt up over his head, and now he had a half-naked Shawn in his lap, disheveled and flushed with arousal. Lassiter's mouth went dry at the sight.

"I always knew you wanted to rip my clothes off," Shawn smirked. Lassiter didn't answer, just ran a hand up Shawn's chest and and tweaked one flat brown nipple, making Shawn draw in a sharp breath. Shawn leaned forward and kissed him again, more insistently than before, and Lassiter returned to the zipper he had abandoned earlier, pushing it down. Shawn's mouth moved to his jaw, then to the soft skin beneath his ear, and Lassiter bit back a groan because even his wildest fantasies (and he'd had some pretty wild fantasies) were no match for a living, breathing, eager Shawn Spencer who wanted him.

"Maybe we should move this to the bedroom," Shawn said in his ear, before dropping his mouth to suck at Lassiter's neck.

"Later," Lassiter promised, as he finally got his hand in Shawn's pants, pushing his shorts aside so that he could rub his palm across the head of Shawn's cock.

"Fffffuck," Shawn hissed, thrusting up in hopes of more contact. Lassiter didn't disappoint, wrapping a hand around him, using slow, even strokes to drive him crazy. He kept his eyes on Shawn's face while he worked, watching how Shawn bit his lip when Lassiter gently squeezed, how his eyelashes fluttered shut when he concentrated on the head, how he squirmed with pleasure when Lassiter used the pre-come spilling out of him to slick his hand up and down again and again.

When Shawn did open his eyes again, they were wild with desperation. "Lassie," he whispered, and Lassiter felt a surge of emotions so complex that he couldn't possibly parse them all run through him—desire and frustration and affection and power and protectiveness—all of it so overwhelming that he almost thought he might come too, just from bringing Shawn to the edge.

"Come on, Spencer," he urged softly, digging his thumb under the ridge at the top of the shaft, and that, along with the sound of Lassiter's voice saying his name, seemed to be what Shawn needed to tip him over into orgasm. Afterwards, he sagged against Lassiter, watching through half-lidded eyes as Lassiter wiped them both clean with Shawn's discarded shirt.

"Now what am I going to wear home?" he asked, not sounding particularly concerned.

Lassiter shrugged; he felt strangely content despite the fact that he was so hard that he was aching. "We can throw it in the wash before you leave," he said, before it occurred to him that maybe Shawn wanted to leave now, or as soon as he got past his post-orgasm blissed-out phase. "Or you can wear one of mine if you're in a hurry," he added in a rush.

"I'm in no hurry," Shawn said through a yawn.

Lassiter barely noticed. "I guess we're even now," he said, and felt Shawn stiffen against him.

"Is that what this is?" Shawn asked, moving carefully off of Lassiter's lap to sit down beside him, straightening his boxers as he did, then zipping his jeans back up.

"No!" Lassiter protested immediately. "Not to me, anyway." He sighed. "I'm sorry. I should never have said that. I'm terrible at this."

Shawn relaxed enough to laugh. "Yeah, well, me too, in case you hadn't noticed."

"If we do this for real, it's going to be a lot of work," Lassiter warned him. "I'm not the easiest person to be with, as my ex-wife will attest. She would tell you that I'm closed-off and overprotective and bad-tempered and a workaholic and—"

Shawn cut him off by leaning over and putting a hand over his mouth. "And cranky before your morning sugar-and-coffee infusion, and suspicious, and ridiculously competitive…you think I don't know all your faults already, Lassie? I've spent the last few years making a comprehensive study of you. If there were a _Jeopardy!_ category about you, I would sweep the category and get both of the Daily Doubles."

Lassiter removed Shawn's hand from his mouth. "Both Daily Doubles would never be in the same category, Spencer," he said, but a reluctant smile was tugging at his lips, and some of the tension eased out of him.

"Anyway," Shawn continued, "if this thing falls apart, it will probably be my fault, not yours. I've been accused by some of being sliiiiightly immature."

Lassiter nodded, taking Shawn's hand because he could now and running his fingers across the palm, feeling Shawn shiver in response to the light touch. "Yes, I believe I'm the one who said that, only I used the word 'completely,' not the word 'slightly'."

"And you, at least, have done the whole serious relationship thing before. I have trouble committing to an entire season of a TV show.

Lassiter paused, turning to look fully at Shawn. "Is that what we're talking about here? A serious relationship?"

Shawn squirmed at the question, clearly uncomfortable. "I'm not a big fan of the 'r' word. It makes me itchy. Maybe we could call it something else? Like…Fred."

"Fred?" Lassiter echoed, confused, his heart sinking. _He thinks this is a joke,_ the persistently negative voice in the back of his mind whispered.

"Yeah, Fred," Shawn said, nodding vigorously. "It's a friendly, open name. See, it even starts the same way the word 'friend' does! You want to hang out with Fred, spend time with him. Fred's a good guy, lots of fun, someone you can trust, someone you can believe in. Surprisingly sexy and adventurous, but also dependable."

Lassiter sighed and pulled his hand away from Shawn's so that he could rub at his suddenly aching head. "Spencer, are you seeing someone named Fred?"

"What? No! Noooooo. Lassie, if this Fred is going to work, you're going to have to trust me a little bit," Shawn said earnestly. "And you also have to laugh at my jokes sometimes."

Some of the tension in Lassiter's gut eased; Spencer was right, and the thing was, he did trust him in a lot of ways already. Believing that Shawn actually wanted to be with him, in a way that wasn't just about sex or pity or a misplaced sense of gratitude…that was what he had a hard time trusting. But it meant something that Shawn was still there, even attempting to have this conversation, when Lassiter had some idea of how hard it was for him to reveal anything beyond his usual glibness.

"But only sometimes, right?" he asked, and was rewarded with an appreciative grin from Shawn.

"Hey, I am hilarious," Shawn said. "I made Gus laugh so hard at lunch that he shot milk out of his nose, and that wasn't just in third grade, that was yesterday."

Lassiter wrinkled his own nose in disgust. "Thanks for that image. I think you just killed whatever mood was left."

"I can bring it back to life," Shawn said, pulling Lassiter down to kiss him again. After a few minutes, Lassiter put a hand to gently push him away. It wasn't that he wanted to stop, but…

"I know you're still lying to me about being psychic," he said quietly, and Shawn immediately shut down, backing off so that they weren't touching anymore, which wasn't what Lassiter wanted at all, so he went after him, reaching out to pull him close again. "Look, I'm just saying that if this…Fred…is going to actually be something, then you're going to have to tell me about it sometime soon. It doesn't have to be tonight."

Shawn seemed to consider this before nodding and looking up at Lassiter with a wobbly smile. "Yeah, okay, that's fair. Maybe there's another game of truth or dare in our future."

There had been a time, not long ago at all, that this kind of tacit confession from Shawn would have made Lassiter feel both furious and triumphant, but now that it's happened, he finds that he's mostly just relieved that Shawn isn't trying to deny the truth. He would like to think that he's not being swayed by his feelings, and he'd like even more to believe that the memory of Shawn's dick twitching in his hand or the fact that even now, when he's been so intent of having a serious discussion the fact that his eyes keep darting to Shawn's bare chest and broad shoulders has no influence on him, but he knows he's probably kidding himself.

Speaking of…he finds himself staring at Shawn's chest again, unconsciously licking his lips, and raises his eyes to see that Shawn is watching him, his own gaze hazy with want.

"Lassie, if we're done with the serious conversation part of the night, will you please take me to bed now?"

"Yeah," Lassiter said, nearly falling over himself in his eagerness to get to his feet, "I can do that."

They crashed into the bedroom together, Shawn reveling in how he could finally touch Lassiter as much as he wanted, pulling the remainder of their clothes off and sinking into the mattress with Lassie on top of him. It was better than pineapple upside down cake with whipped cream and extra cherries on top, a claim that Shawn did not make lightly.

And after that…somehow, even Lassiter having to disentangle himself long enough to hunt down condoms and lube in the bathroom cabinet had been sexy. Maybe it was the anticipation, Shawn waiting on the bed, trying to calm himself down enough that he wouldn't come the instant Lassie touched him again. Normally, that wouldn't have been a problem given the fact that he'd already come once within the past hour, but being with Lassie made him feel like an overexcited fifteen year old.

Maybe Lassie felt the same way, because when he came to the bed he dropped the tube of lubricant on the pillow next to him and reached for Shawn, kissing him frantically as he rubbed against him, his cock leaving a sticky trail on Shawn's hip. He felt something being pressed into his hand and looked to see that Lassiter had given him the condom.

"That's for you to use," Lassiter said, and Shawn's expectations of the night flipped. It didn't actually matter to him—he wanted to do everything with Lassie, and possibly invent some new things as well, but he had assumed that Lassiter's trust issues meant that Shawn would be on the receiving end of things. _Well, you know what they say about assuming,_ he thought giddily. _It means me get some ass._

"Are you sure?" Shawn asked. He still hadn't figured out Lassie's dude-on-dude experience level; he seemed comfortable enough with Shawn's man parts, but there was a difference between a hand job and, well, giving it all up. "Have you done this before?"

Lassiter frowned at him. "Don't patronize me, Spencer. And besides," he said, his expression softening, "I trust you. I do."

Shawn pushed him back onto the bed and clambered on top of him, needing to be touching him as much as possible, and tasting him too. He licked at the long column of Lassie's throat, bit at his stiff pink nipples, drawing a hoarse, shocked sound from Lassiter, then leaned down to suck at his hard, heavy cock, wanting it, _him_ , so much that he almost passed the condom back to Lassie.

But no, Lassiter wanted Shawn to fuck him, and Shawn was fully on board with that plan.

"Roll over," he said, his voice so throaty and low that he barely recognized it as his own, and Lassiter stilled, looking at him through wide, unblinking blue eyes. There was an internal battle brewing there, and Shawn knew it had to do with trust and with Lassiter's unwillingness to make himself vulnerable to anyone, no matter what he might offer in the heat of the moment. Shawn's first inclination was to babble, reassure, give Lassiter the option of changing his mind, but some deeper instinct told him to remain silent, to let Lassiter come to this decision on his own. After what was probably only a few seconds, but felt like eons to Shawn, Lassiter gave a little nod of acquiescence and rolled over onto his stomach, and Shawn thought he might start hyperventilating with lust. But alongside the lust bloomed a scary feeling of responsibility: if Lassiter was going to trust him, then it meant that Shawn had to prove himself worthy of that trust.

He pushed that realization aside for later and leaned down to press his mouth against the nape of Lassiter's neck, licking the sweat that had gathered at the base of the hairline before turning his head slightly to whisper in Lassie's ear. "This is going to be so, so good, Lassie, I promise. You're not going to regret it."

Lassiter's only response was a soft sigh, but some of the tension in his shoulders relaxed as Shawn dotted kisses there, spreading his hands against the smooth, pale expanse of skin before licking down his spine, drawing a raspy moan from Lassie.

"Your ass is a masterpiece," Shawn said reverently, not caring how ridiculous it might sound, and Lassiter made a scoffing sound of disbelief. It was true, though; he jogged regularly, Shawn knew, and probably swam also, and it showed off in the muscles of his glutes and thighs.

"Seriously Lass, you could build a whole religion around it." To prove his devotion Shawn ran his tongue up the cleft once and then again and again in quick succession, not deeply, but even so Lassiter's hips jerked like he had been electrocuted.

" _Shaaawn_!" It came out a strangled, scandalized groan, and a feral grin spread across Shawn's face at how satisfying, how powerful, it felt to make Lassie lose control. He nipped hard at the fleshiest part of the ass, wanting to leave a mark that only he could see, and Lassiter groaned again, grinding against the sheets.

"Spencer," Lassiter snarled, his voice rough with need, "if you don't fuck me right the fuck now, I'm going to arrest you."

"On what charges?" Shawn wondered, as he reached for the lube with hands that were shaking, not so much with nerves anymore as with want.

"Uhh, Section 186.9 of the penal code," Lassie said.

"That's money laundering," Shawn pointed out, rubbing the ointment between his fingers so it would be warm.

"How do you know…oh _god_ ," he gasped, as Shawn invaded him with one blunt finger, slicking him down, fighting for his own control at how tight and hot and perfect Lassiter felt around him. He knew when he had found exactly the right spot when Lassie suddenly gasped, his whole body quaking with pleasure.

He tried to go slow, to take his time and be careful and do it right, but Lassiter's hips were rising to meet every thrust of his fingers, and Shawn was frantic to get inside of him. He tore the condom packet open and rolled it on, taking the opportunity to squeeze his own cock tight around the base, hoping that he wouldn't come too fast and disappoint Lassie.

He took Lassiter inch by careful inch, pausing whenever he felt Lassie tensing up at the invasion, coaxing him with flowery compliments and soft kisses along his spine, trying not to get so absorbed in how goddamn amazing it felt to be inside him that he lost track of how Lassie was feeling, until finally he was as deep as he could possibly be. He pressed his face against Lassiter's sweat-soaked back for a moment, hearing his own panting breaths and Lassie's heartbeat.

"Shawn? Are you…is everything okay?" Lassiter asked, sounding ragged and wobbly but somehow still concerned.

Shawn choked back a laugh. "Okay? Sweet Mary Kate and Ashley, everything is _perfect_ , Lass." He pulled Lassiter's hips up so that he could get a hand around Lassie's cock, stroking him back to hardness. "What about you? How are you doing?"

Lassiter's only response was a moan, probably because Shawn was rubbing his palm over the head of his dick.

After that, Shawn fucked him slowly, or as slowly as he could, listening as Lassie's harsh little "uh uh uh"s at each thrust turned into him gasping "fuck, fuck, fuck, _Shawn_ ," when he found exactly the right angle. He let himself speed up then, starbursts of pleasure radiating along his nerves at the push and pull of their bodies until he felt the spill of hot liquid over the hand squeezing Lassie's cock. He gave up on the tiny amount of control he was still clinging to, collapsing on to Lassie's back after he came, his mind blissfully, perfectly clear.

Shawn woke up to the unfamiliar feeling of an arm draped around his middle and Lassiter's forehead pressed against his shoulder. He couldn't quite see the clock, but judging from the grayish light coming in through the blinds, it was right before dawn. He kind of needed to pee, but he didn't want to disturb Lassie, who, judging from the deep, even breaths he was taking, was still sound asleep.

Well, to be fair, Shawn had done his best to exhaust him.

He closed his eyes again, because he had exhausted himself, too. In the quiet of the morning, he was able to replay his memories of the night before, to make note of the things that he knew now that he hadn't known ten hours earlier, when he had knocked on Lassie's door. Like the way Lassiter's big hand had felt wrapped around his cock, or the sounds Lassie made when he was being fucked hard, or the way that being with him made Shawn feel like the best possible version of himself.

Warm and content, he drifted. When he opened his eyes again, he found that Lassiter was watching him.

"I was starting to wonder if you were ever going to wake up," Lassiter said. "I have to start getting ready for work soon."

It seemed impossible that Lassie was going to leave this bed and go back to the mundane reality of filing paperwork and typing reports until he was allowed out into the field again. That thought reminded him of the reason that Lassie was stuck working behind a desk in the first place, and he reached over and pushed the sheet away so that he could see the place where Lassie had been shot. It looked much better than it had the night that he had helped bandage it, but there was always going to be a scar. A lifelong reminder of how they had both screwed up that day.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked curiously.

Lassiter gave a little shrug. "Not so much. It still aches a bit sometimes. A twinge every now and then."

Shawn bent his head to kiss the scar gently, feeling Lassiter ruffle his hair as he did. "I'm not sorry it happened," Lassiter said.

"No?" Shawn asked, looking back up at him.

"Would we be here if it hadn't?"

Shawn had to agree with that, but he still deeply regretted that he had played any part in Lassiter being hurt. Looking back into the fathomless blue of Lassie's eyes, he did his best to shake off the fear that always crept over him when he thought about Lassiter getting shot.

As if sensing his mood, Lassiter shoved the bedclothes off of him and stood up, immediately distracting Shawn with all that glorious nudity.

"Come on, get up," Lassiter said. "I'm in the mood for waffles, and I think I have a fresh pineapple in the kitchen. I need to take a shower first, though. You're welcome to join me if you like."

He turned purposefully towards the bathroom, and Shawn paused long enough to get an eyeful of his new favorite body part, marred only by the love bite Shawn had left there, before bounding out of bed to follow Lassie.

"You know," he said as he caught up to him, smirking at Lassie's startled yelp as he grabbed a handful of that perfect ass and gave it a friendly squeeze, "I think this Fred is going to work out just fine."


End file.
